


Always A Watson

by Marlboro_Blanc



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, Historical, M/M, Male Slash, True Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-23 03:39:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marlboro_Blanc/pseuds/Marlboro_Blanc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May. 1896 and two orphans, Harriet and John Watson, slowly starve to death on the streets of London. A series of events lead them to be taken in by the mysterious Lord Holmes. As they grow John learns he has to fight in a world obsessed with birth while at the same time an obsessive love threatens to tear him apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> For Coco and The Fitches

Always A Watson  
Chapter One

England. 1896 and Queen Victoria sits proudly on the English throne, the longest reigning monarch the land has ever known. Now in the dying days of the nineteenth century her reign is also drawing to a close. Her age has been one of great knowledge and discovery, forever changing England and it's people. Her empire stretches to the furtherest corners of the globe, bringing with it wealth that the country had not seen before or since. Men marching out in her name to conquer new, unknown lands. The East India Company driving through Asia had heralded an age of culture and prosperity, and with the sun soaked island of the Caribbean to the west and Australia to the East the sun never sets of her colonies. Ships roll into England's harbours filled with spices and tea and other such wonders. Men walking in fine suits to a chorus of Elgar and change, scientists expanding the mind, solving complex puzzles, curing diseases and unlocking secrets, pointing their microscopes at the very small, and their telescopes at the very big. Inventors radically changing the landscape with their large, dark mechanisms, something called electricity crackled and fizzed in bulbs of light, ending the reign of darkness. 

The Victorian mind seemed to be one of endless curiosity. Victorian values obsess over wealth and power. Where once a nation of people had been toiling in fields they now became one of intelligence and industry. Factories fill and dark smoke saturates the English air as the population rushes into the cities. For a hundred years the industrial revolution had gripped it's shores, changing production for ever. Though now over it's effects could still be felt. England changed into a free market, into a country of manufacturing and trade and men become richer then ever. It's capital, London,becomes the largest and most prosperous city in the entire world. Countries look to England as a driving force, as the most powerful nation on Earth, as admired as it was feared. This golden age seemingly had no end. 

But this tale is not a tale of rich men, it is not one of empire or of industry, or scientists and inventors. It is not even about Queen Victoria herself. This tale is about a boy, a small, insignificant boy, by the name of John Watson. 

Now John Watson may not go down in the history books, in a hundred years time men will not speak his name in wonder or admiration, neither will school masters write his name in chalk on blackboards up and down the land, he will be entirely forgotten, like so many others in this world. Sure he may not have cured any diseases, he has not invented anything of note, discovered a new land or anything like that, but that does not mean his tale is not a remarkable one. It is a tale of bravery and sacrifice, and most importantly of all, it is one of love.

His appearance is rather common, handsome yes, but there is nothing in his features that distinguishes him from anyone else. He has sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, large eyes filled with all the innocence and wonder of a newborn foal. His mother once remarked that his eyes were like two large moons, wide and bright in the night sky. Lower down his face he has two rather rosy cheeks, his mouth small but his lips red and plump. He has a short but compact frame and is smaller then most boys his age. 

He lives in London, but his London is not one of prosperity, the East End of London is which John Watson called his home was a cruel and unforgiving place, it had not benefited or prospered from men claiming foreign lands as their own. It was an area of extreme poverty, disease and death. The houses and streets crammed together till there was no space for anything else, fog and smoke a constant presence in the streets making it impossible to see over a long distance. The streets themselves had no order to them, winding about haphazardly. Dark alleyways and hidden corners were everywhere, making the whole structure appear much like a rabbit warren. To the uninitiated it would be so easy to get lost here, to enter the maze and never find one's way out. Lost forever amongst the toil and desperation. 

The people of the East End tried to scratch out a measly living in its streets, trying desperately to keep their heads above water just enough not to drown, living hand to mouth was the only thing it's population had ever known. 

People do not live very long here, children especially, John Watson knows this and is grateful. He had just turned five when our tale begins, no longer a baby. John knows he is now the man of the house. It was now his role to look after his mother and sister and he took his duties highly seriously. He was grown now, and as a man it was up to him to look after them all. He, his mother and his sister Harriet live in a shabby room just off George's street. Barely large enough for a bed. Five families crammed into the house itself, children running about all the time, babies being born and dying weeks later, men and women constantly cursing at each other, the noise sends John mad, he wishes constantly for peace and quiet. 

His sister Harriet is exactly the same age as him, years ago his mother told him stories of how they were both inside of her at the same time. John does not know how this was possible, his mothers tummy was small and he alone could not fit in it, so how was it possible for him and Harry to squeeze in? Harry was short like him, though as a girl she did not feel the same embarrassment over her height that John did. She has the same blue eyes and the same sandy blonde hair, John was sometimes afraid of her as she has a vicious temper. His mother told him stories of them when they were still in their swaddling clothes, she said Harry cried constantly but John was always as good as gold. They take after their mother, she to has the same small button nose and fair features. He wonders if there is any of his father in him, but John cannot remember what he looks like, and he no picture to use as a reference. 

He had not lived in this place all his life, he vaguely remembers a large house with a large kitchen where mother would make the most delicious pies for them all. The kitchen itself had the most enormous fireplace, John could easily crawl inside quite comfortably. He spent many an evening warming himself in his mothers arms, watching the bright arms of orange dance around the room. John had such nice clothes back then, clothes that did not have holes or lice buried into the fabric. He had toys to, such wonderful, magical toys, he remembers clearly a wooden train set with it's tracks and carriages. That is where he lived when father was still with them, but after he left his mother said they had to move and they came here. Now mother no longer made pies and there was no fireplace. He had outgrown all his old clothes and Mother refused to tell him what she had done with his train set.

Sometimes he wonders where his father has gone or when he was going to come back, sometimes he asks his mother but she does not respond, instead she goes very quiet and stares out of the window, sometimes he would catch her crying and John would have to comfort her. John now knows better then to pry. All he knows is that one evening he was there and come morning he had gone and he had not seen him since. He does not know what else to do but wait for him to come back to them. He vows to look after mother and Harriet so that his father would be proud of him when he returns. 

He worries that when father does return he will go back to their old house and wont know where they are. Maybe he was there right now, in that big house with the big fireplace and his train set, sitting there all alone wondering where they had gone. Maybe he was not at the old house at all. Maybe he was on the large ships John saw, bringing all those funny smelling things back, or maybe he was a solider fighting savages for the good of the empire. Mother said his father was a bastard, but John was not quite sure what a bastard was. 

He once asked his mother if they could go back as he hated where they lived now, that one room with the raggedy curtains was always cold and damp, it didn't have a train set and always smelt of old chamber pots. His mother had given him a vicious slap for the remark, he refused to cry, he was far too old to cry. Later his mother found him huddled in the corner, she put an arm round him and said she was sorry, she said she would never do it again and John had to forgive her. John forgave her. 

John worries over his mother, she used to be able to walk but now she spends all her day in bed, too weak to move, she coughs blood into a raggedy old handkerchief and when she does she makes the most appalling sound, a loud chesty sound that John was quiet scared of. They no longer had any money, using the last of the coins to pay for something called medicine that mother took, but it did not stop the blood from coming out of her mouth. In fact as the weeks went by Mother seemed to only get worse, and soon it had all run out. There were men who cured those that were sick, John knows that they are called doctors. He knows enough to know that they could not afford a doctor. 

John wishes he knew how to help her, he has decided that when he is big enough he will become a doctor and cure Mother. Just like those men with their funny bags and thick moustaches. His father definitely would be proud of him if he could cure his Mother's horrid cough.

It is an early May morning in 1896 when we meet John, the weather was rather warm and quite mild. He likes to walk down the streets in the morning when the weather is fair and he knows no frost will have hardened the ground. It was a habit of his, to scavenge for food and maybe beg a few coins before midday and the streets became over run with people. Before mother was confined to the bed she used to often force him and Harry out the house, one time he returned to the sight of a man coming out of his house, he was in the process of doing up his shirt. John did not know why he had taken his shirt off to see his Mother, but that night Mother had bought them all buns for tea and again John did not pry. In fact whenever men knocked at the door she would force him or Harry out of the house, giving them menial and trivial tasks to complete. John was secretly very confused by it all. But now Mother was in bed the men no longer came, and they no longer had buns.

He walks along down the middle of the road near his house and he knows he must find food somehow. He can feel his bones under his skin and the skin itself is a horrible sunken yellow colour. Everywhere he looks there are people exactly like him, with rags for clothes and bones that stick out. Short, sharp hunger pains keep running through his system, he had not eaten in days and they kept getting worse and worse. He was desperate, he would eat a rat if he could catch one. 

Suddenly he glimpsed a lady walking a slight distance away from him, her dress a dark purple colour, only the wealthy could afford purple. It was well made, and unlike so many others she did not fix a tatty bonnet to her head, instead it was a small hat he had seen more fashionable women wear. She must have been the wife of one of the shop owners nearby, or perhaps a local clerk. So obviously rich her dress sense was that John thought it nigh on impossible for her to be one of them, she stuck out like a sore thumb in this grubby street. Such a strange exotic creature was she that John wondered if she was local at all. He has seen a few rich women come to the area to engage in philanthropy, but they never came alone, and they never came for very long. 

She held a basket and inside was a large loaf of bread. His mouth watered, he hadn't had bread in so long. He closed his eyes at the smell, the warmth and spice of the freshly baked dough. His stomach growled and the prospect of eating it sent him into a tizzy. He followed her, keeping a few steps behind, making sure he was quite out of sight. Then quite suddenly she stopped to talk to another women, John watched their chins wagging at an alarming rate. John decided now was his chance, his bare feet made no sound as he scurried along, making sure to keep a sizeable distance so he was not spotted, then when he was sure the lady was distracted enough by her friends that there was no chance she would notice him, he pounced, grabbing the loaf with both hands, clutching the brown treasure between his fingers, both hands on either end so as not to drop it. He lodged it underneath his arm and ran, ran to a chorus of shrieks and cries.

'After him!' 'Someone catch him!' 'stop thief!' 

he heard being bellowed out behind him, but he did not stop. He ran and ran, weaving in and out of onlookers and through the streets of his segment of the capital. He knew the area like the back of his hand, for once being grateful of his short stature as he could duck and dive better then anyone. He made sure no one was following him before he headed in the direction of home. When he made sure that he was out of danger and there wasn't a chance of being caught he made his way back to his mother and Harry and the shabby room. 

The loaf was still hot under his arm. As much as he wanted to just stuff the entire thing into his mouth right there and then he knew he had to wait until he was home. He salivated at the very thought of the brown treasure he clutched to his chest. He hadn't had anything in so long. The last thing he remembered eating was a tiny bowl of porridge he had shared with Harry a few days back, they had no milk so had to use the murky water from the well, it was not enough to sustain him, it was not enough to keep hunger at bay for more the a handful of hours, but John was thankful, even if he did let Harry eat most of it. 

He hurried home, knowing he was a target for bigger boys who would happily slash his throat to get hold of his prize, he clutched the bread yet tighter and ran up the stairs to his room. 

'Mother' he yelled. 'Mother'

His yanked open the door into the gloom. The only light was what could creep through the rags that hang on the window. They could only afford one candle, so it was only ever lit in emergencies. The room was dark, too many buildings blocked their view of the sun, but it was just enough to see by. 

His mother smiled at him as he leapt up onto the bed beside her. 

'Are you all right?' he asked. 

'Yes John, I'm quite, quite all right.' She smiled at him, her voice low and kind. Sometimes his mother was too unwell to speak, sometimes she only had the energy to nod or shake her head, though he was glad today was a speaking day, he wanted to hear her soft words congratulating him on the bread. 

Harry was out selling matches, though the money she brought home immediately went on paying their landlord. Even then it was not enough, every day Mr Bridgely threatened to throw them out into the street, sometime John wondered if the only reason they were allowed to stay was because his Mother could not move. He despised Mr Bridgely. He was an old, fat man who wore a suit far too small for him, John hated seeing his rolls of fat peaking out from his collar. 

He could no longer resist, he pulled at the bread and stuffed a large handful into his mouth, he had barely chewed at all before he swallowed, his stomach cramping from pain but he did not mind, that would go when he had a few more mouthfuls and the taste made any pain worthwhile, it was hot and delicious. 

His mother smiled at him. 'You're a good boy for finding that.' she whispered. He knew stealing bread was not what what good Christian boys did and that his mother secretly disproved, but when one faced starvation sometimes the sin of stealing was ignored and you were simply glad you found a way to live to see the next day. 

'Make sure you leave some for Harry.' His mother instructed. John tried to resist gobbling everything down, his stomach had finally settled and his mouth washed with saliva as he chewed, savouring each bite. He would leave half for Harry and have half for himself. 

'Please eat some' His offered the loaf to his mother. 

'I'm not very hungry right now.' 

John shook his head, his mother barely ate anything now. 'Please.' 

His mother tore of the tiniest chunk of break, 'Even a mouse wouldn't find that fulfilling' John thought. His mother screwed up her face in the most unsightly manner as she chewed it, John guessed her stomach was cramping to. He wanted her to eat more but she did not touch the loaf again. 

When he had finished his half he made sure to place the bread out the way of the mice and rats, who were sure to chew on it before Harry returned home. Wiping his wet fingers on his old shirt he set about doing the household tasks his mother could not manage. He emptied the chamberpot, he cleaned up a puddle on the floor where his mother had not managed to get to the pot in time, he went to the well and filled up the buckets with water. He scrubbed his shirts and Harry's spare dress in the bucket and then hung them out to dry. He dusted the mantelpiece despite the only thing being there was their only candle and the bread. He did everything his mother did before she was confined to the bed. 

When he was done he crawled into bed with Mother. He liked to cuddle her when he was sure to be awake, at night he would be too fast asleep to savour her touch or hear her words. He wanted her to tell him a story, she used to tell him a story about a young man who met a young woman, about how their parents had disapproved and so they had run away together, how they married and the young woman gave birth to twins just like him and Harry, but since father left she had not spoken a word of it. Again John did not ask. Instead she told him a story about an ugly duckling who grew up to be a swan, and then about a rose that grew on the side of a mountain, and then one about a solider who fought a dragon in a time long before John was born. John could not imagine this, he could not think of a world any different to the one he had known, he could only think of this room and his sick mother, or the large house with the large fireplace. 

His mother had told him once that when she was younger she wanted to sell stories to people, but apparently the people who made books did not accept stories from women. John was not sure why, his mothers stories were excellent. 

When she was too exhausted to tell him any more she wrapped an arm round him and John nestled into her side. 

'You're going to be very special when you grow up, you do know that John don't you?' she weezed, John was about to reply when she shook with deep coughs, clutching the dirty handkerchief to her mouth, John saw the bright red blood she coughed up.

'Listen John.' She smiled, leaning back down onto the pillow. 'I need you to promise me something.'

'What is it?' John asked, though he had already agreed to do it whatever it was, he would never say no to Mother. 

'I need you to look after Harry. Promise me John, promise me you will take good care of her.' 

John nodded feeling slightly scared, why wasn't Mother making him promise to look after her?

'I will, I promise.' he said anyway, not asking her for fear of upsetting her. 

She smiled again, the sadness in her eyes seemed to evaporate, she looked entirely at peace, she looked happy like she did when they lived in the old house. 'You are a brave boy John Watson.' she whispered. His Mother couldn't seem to say anything above a whisper 'One day you are going to find someone and they will love you just as much as I do.' 

John nodded, not entirely sure what his mother was going on about. He settled back down beside her. She hummed him a lullaby, something she used to sing when he was much smaller. John felt his eyelids become heavy, the bread had made him feel lethargic and sleepy. Now wrapped up in his mothers arms all he wanted to do was sleep. He wouldn't sleep for long, he would just rest his eyes. His mothers voice filled him with a rather unique kind of happiness. He felt nothing but bliss, now warm and full for the first time in weeks, he drifted off to sleep. 

He awoke sharply as he heard a crying sound. His sister Harry staring at him in shock as tears ran down her cheeks. He put his finger over his lip trying to silence her, Mother was asleep next to her and he did not want Harry to wake her. She felt incredibly rigid as he crawled out of her arms, and cold to, he covered her with the blanket they had been sleeping under to try and warm her up.

'Oh thank god' Harry wailed. 'I thought you had gone to.' 

'Will you just be quiet, you will wake mother.' he snapped back. 

Harry continued to sniffle and wipe her eyes. 

'There is some bread over there for you.' he nodded to the mantle above a large hole where there should have been a fireplace. He remembered on their first night here mother had lit a fire, but the chimney must have been clogged as as soon as the thing was lit the room filled with smoke. Mr Bridgely refused to pay for a chimney sweep and as they could not afford one they had to make do with the cold. 

Harry continued to cry. 'For goodness sake what is the matter with you?' she wailed. Running over to the bed she stared at mother in the most appalling way. John gave his mother a closer look. Something was wrong with her as her face had turned a pale blue colour. 

'Mother.' he shook her shoulder gently, there was no response. 'Mother come on, wake up, please mother wake up.' he tried shaking her a bit harder, but she stayed entirely still. She did not feel like his mother, she did not feel warm and welcoming, she felt cold and made of stone. 

'She is dead John' Harry murmured. John felt a hot tear fall down his cheek. No, his mother could not be dead, she just couldn't be, any minute now she would wake and sing him a lullaby and tell him a story about a duck. 

'No she isn't. She is just sleeping.' again he tried to wake her. Again she did not rouse. 

Suddenly their was the sound of someone stamping up the stairs making an awful commotion. The door was flung open and in walked their horrid landlord Mr Bridgely. 

'Rent!' he bellowed 'Where is my rent you useless woman? Already weeks behind I should throw you out into the gutter.' 

John wanted to yell at the awful man, he wanted to tell him his mother was not useless, but then he remembered his mother was dead, and with that he began to cry. 

Mr Bridgely gave a long huff and put his fat fingers on his hips. 'Well' he sneered at his mothers lifeless corpse 'Can't say I'm surprised. You two wait here, I will fetch someone to take care of you.' 

He slammed the door behind him, John immediately breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he was gone. He hated how his heart always quickened and his skin pricked with fear whenever he was around the man. His thick grey moustache and cold dead eyes gave him nightmares. 

'We need to get out of here.' Harry said quickly. 

John snapped his neck so he was facing his sister 'We cannot leave.'

'We have to, Mr Bridgely is going to stick us in an orphanage.' she protested, her eyes wild in fear. 

'What's an orphinglidge?' John asked, wiping his nose with his sleeve, he tried to sound grown up and brave, but he did not feel very brave at all. 

'Orphanage.' Harry repeated 'It's this horrid place where they take children and they starve and beat them and they have these large sinks that they fill with water and they push your head under till you drown.'

John did not like the idea of drowning, but he would not leave Mother. 'We have to stay.' he sat by his mother, taking her cold, lifeless hand in his. 

'Well I'm leaving.' Harry said defiantly, 'I'm not going into an orphanage'

He suddenly remembered what his mother told him, he had to look after Harry, he had to, he had promised. 

'Where will we go?' he sniffed. 

Harry ran forward over the damp floorboards 'We will think of something.' grabbing his hand firmly she yanked him off the bed. 'Come on', she ran, beckoning him over to the door. Grabbing the bread she shoved it into her pocket and charged down the stairs. 

John faced his mother once more. 

'I love you.' he whispered, kissing her cold cheek then he followed Harry down the stairs. 

They slept that night in front of a shop door, the little alcove providing just enough shelter from the cold, John huddled into Harry as he tried to stay warm. He wished so badly that he was back with Mother, he wished he was back in the old bed with her nice and warm next to him. He felt angry at himself for all the times he complained about the shabby room, at least it was dry, at least his mother was still alive and there to hug him and keep him warm. He felt hot tears once again prick behind his eyelids. 'It just was not fair' he thought bitterly to himself. He had lost so much, he had lost his father, his home and his train set, he had even lost his one room with the one candle and now he had lost Mother to. What cruel merciless fate had befallen him? He wiped his eyes knowing that men did not cry, only babies cried and he was no longer a baby. 

The fog in London was thick, yet through a small gap in the clouds he could see a patch of clear night sky. A bright star was shooting itself over the pitch black canvas. He could see the bright trail it left behind before it was entirely obscured by the thick fog. He decided to make a wish, he was still a man but no one was around so only he would know he had done something as childish as wishing on a shooting star. He thought for a few moments, knowing he only got one wish and it could not be wasted. He couldn't wish for something trivial, it had to be special. 

'I want a friend.' he whispered into the dark. 'I want a best friend who will love me and I will love them and I will never ever lose them. Ever.'

He was pleased. That was a good wish. And as everyone knew a wish made on a shooting star had to come true. Right now he was cold, hungry, homeless, but maybe, just maybe, the star had heard him. 

The next morning was a bitter one, the cold seeped into John's bones making his teeth chatter insensately, he wrapped his arms around his chest, trying in vein to catch a glimpse of the warmth that seemed so determined to evade him. The shop keep had shooed them out of his doorway as soon as the sun marked its arrival in the sky. They walked along the streets, no particular destination in mind, just the hope that motion would make them feel proactive. Two small, lonely figures set amongst the hustle and bustle of the capitals streets. 

'I'm hungry' Harry moaned, they had eaten the last of the stolen bread earlier that morning. John to felt the returning pains in his stomach. He decided to risk stealing again. Like yesterday he would choose someone with obvious wealth, someone who's life did not depend on a loaf of bread or small pie. Yes it was a sin, but hunger lasted much longer then shame did. It hurt more to. He wondered down the street, only noticing Harry had stopped till he was a few strides ahead of her. 

'Oh John look' Harry pointed a thin finger to the middle of the road. John briefly wondered what she was pointing at, he was about to ask why they had stopped but then he saw the thing. A grey kitten sitting right in the centre of the road. Its wide green eyes looking round at everyone. It looked quite content, it seemed to be well fed despite having no collar round its neck. John guessed it was a good rat catcher. 

'Oh isn't it pretty?' Harry squealed, John was happy to see a smile on her face, he hadn't seen her smile like that in a long time. The last time he had seen her look truly happy was when Father was with them, they were walking down the street on the way to a fair and his Father had picked her up and placed her on his shoulders, she had laughed all the way there. 

A few seconds later he saw a horse drawn carriage come down the road. The beast was huge, chestnut brown and with a glimmering mane, it had two big black eyes like two pieces of large coal. Not a speck on it, no dirt or cuts, not like the overworked ponies John saw, it was twice the size of any other horse John had ever seen, its thighs the size of tree trunks, its legs long and powerful. It whinnied slightly, a sound deep and low John was immediately quite frightened. Its skin looked so glossy the suns rays seemed to bounce of it. 

The carriage it pulled was dark black, with gold detailing on the doors, the mahogany wood must have concealed someone incredibly important. John didn't know why someone like that would be travelling through here. 

The horses hooves clipped menacingly over the road, the kitten however had yet to move out of it's way. The thing crouched down low, its eyes wide open in fear yet it did not move. John wished for it to just run, but it stayed entirely still. It was going to be killed, the horse was bearing down on right on it.

'Harry No!' John screamed at his sister as she ran in front of the carriage and made a grab for the cat. 

The driver pulled harshly on the reigns causing the horse to stop suddenly, it rose up and kicked its hooves out into the air. John could not see his sister so tangled was she in the legs of the large beast. It whinnied again, chomping at the bit that was clamped in its mouth. 

'Harry!' John screamed 'Harry!'

He ran into the road, running towards the small figure that lay underneath the horse. 

'John.' Harry whispered as he crouched down at the body of his sister. 'John I fell, my wrist it hurts.'  
She whimpered. 

Harry clutched the wrist in her other hand, it did look awfully swollen, John hoped she would be all right. 

Behind him he heard the sound of a door slamming.

'What is the meaning of this? Why the devil have we stopped?' he demanded. 

'Child sir, 'an 'ut in fron o' Bess.' The driver explained. 

For a man to own a horse and carriage like this John knew they must indeed be absurdly well off, and the man that climbed out of the carriage did not disappoint. 

He was tall, with a large top hat and slick black hair peeking out from underneath the rim, he had a pair of grey eyes that to John looked slightly cruel. His suit was grey, his right hand clutched a long cane and he wore a large woollen overcoat, the same shade of black as his dark hair. Shoes, soft leather, had been polished till they shone. A pair of leather gloves adorned each hand. His facial features were sharp with prominent cheekbones and a sharp nose. To John, with his ratty clothes and bare feet, he looked like a king. 

'You' he pointed at John. Who was still crouched down in the middle of the road. 'What is your name?'

'John.' he stuttered 'John Watson.' 

He pinched his lips together, leaning on his cane and looking at John as if he were a savage or barbarian. 

Suddenly he turned to look at Harry. A strange look came across his face. 'Vera' her whispered. John did not know why, Harry's name was not Vera. A queer expression fell on his face as soon as he looked at Harry, he gazed at her like she was a pearl he had found inside an oyster, his eyes seemed to soften into two muddy puddles. A hint of a smile even appeared on his lips. 

'Are you hurt?' He asked softly. Bending down over her so he was the same level as John. 

'Just my hand' Harry smiled back. 

The man nodded. 'And you are?'

'My name is Harriet.'

'Well Harriet, let me take a look at your hand.' He delicately took Harry's wrist into his gloves, turning the wrist over slightly. 

'You have a sprain, it will heal but you will need to go to a doctor. Where are your parents?' He smiled at Harry and ran a hand through her hair. His father had done something incredibly similar whenever Harry had hurt herself. 

'My mother is dead, I do not know where my father is.' They continued to talk, low and quiet, out of earshot of John who could only make out the odd word. They talked for what felt like an age, till John's legs felt stiff. 

The man seemed to be lost in thought for a few moments, then he got up and took off his overcoat, wrapping it around Harry then lifting her gently off the ground. 

'Sir' the driver called 'She is just a street child. They are not destined to live long.'

'This girl urgently needs to see a doctor, have you seen how thin she is?' The man snapped back 'A few more days and she will be dead.' 

'And Lord Montague?'

'He can wait, take me back to Sherringford at once.'

'But Sir....'

'Don't forget your place Brown, take me home immediately.' 

The man sighed, admitting defeat. 'Very well Sir.'

John watched the man walk towards the carriage, it appeared he had been quickly forgotten, he stood there in shock as he watched the stranger take his sister, but then he remembered the promise he had made to his mother, he could not lose Harry. 

'Harry!' he called out loudly to the lump in the man's arms 'Harry!'

'John.' she screamed back, holding out her good arm and reaching over in his direction. 'Please can my brother come to? Please he is all I have left.'

The man gave John a dismissive look then sighed 'very well.' 

John ran forward till he was at the door of the carriage. He let the man and Harry climb in first then he followed quickly behind. He was too small to get in on his own so the man had to lift him inside. 

The interior of the carriage was opulently decorated. Two red leather seats on each side, so bright against the dark wood, with a small table attached to the windowsill. The man closed the door behind him and John felt himself jerk forwards as the carriage pulled away. 

Harry was still safely tucked up inside the overcoat, the man holding her in his lap so she was resting against his chest, she was very quiet, John guessed maybe she had fallen asleep. 

'You are not from here are you?' The man asked him quite suddenly, taking off his top hat and gloves. 

'No. How did you know?' John asked puzzled, how did the man know that?

'Your accent, you two are very well spoken for these parts.' he spoke quickly, as if entertaining John was deeply beneath him. 

'We used to live somewhere else' John stammered, once again feeling quite intimidated 'Then father left and mother brought us here, now she is gone.' John felt his eyes prick again, and before he could stop them he began to sob. Whacking great tears rolling down his dirty cheeks.

He was handed a white handkerchief by the man, who awkwardly put a hand on his shoulder and tried to comfort him. 

'My wife is dead.' he explained 'I know what it is to lose someone you love.' 

John wiped his sleeve over his nose and sniffed 'Did she cough to?' 

The man smiled at him, for the first time that day. 'No. She was giving birth to my son. I could tell from the bump he would be a large baby and I hoped and prayed she would be strong enough but' he looked down at the floor, his face suddenly contorted in sorrow 'There was so much blood.' he paused. 'He is your age now. I wanted a daughter so desperately, always have done.' he looked down at Harry 'Maybe this is god finally granting my wish.' he smiled at her again, showing a row of white teeth. 

There was a long pause as John watched London speed past the window. 'Where are we going?'

'My home, Sherringford Hall, it's in the country, not too far though,we should be there by dusk. I will get Harriet the best doctor money can buy.' 

John nodded. 'Will you bring us back when she's better?'

The man laughed. 'Do you know who I am John Watson?'

John shook his head. 

'My name is Lord Holmes. I'm from one of the oldest and most powerful families in all England, I have decided to raise Harriet as my own, I will give her everything, good clothes, a governess, everything, just like I always dreamed of doing. Do you understand what I am telling you John? I could give her a life beyond her wildest dreams, no hunger, no disease, though I do not want her to resent me for taking her away from you, she seems quite attached, so you can stay with us in my house if you like. I already have two sons so you will not be out of place.'

John doubted very much if he had a choice in the matter, he wanted to go back to the one room, he wanted Mother to be there to hug him and cuddle him, he didn't want to go to Sherringford, he didn't want this strange man to take Harry away. 

He looked out of the window, till the streets turned into fields. He saw horses, then something that looked like a horse, but it was shorted and fatter, he was quite confused by it. 

'What is that?' he asked.

'Oh that?' Lord Holmes replied 'That is a cow.'

John felt his eyes get heavier and heavier, he allowed himself to fall asleep to the sounds of the carriage moving slowly forwards. 

When he awoke they had stopped, and Lord Holmes was shaking him softly. 

'We have arrived.'

Sherringford Hall was the biggest house John had ever seen. It was much bigger then even his old house. It was five stories high, a rich golden colour and rows upon rows of large windows. It stood in the centre of a perfectly trimmed field, with large bunches of trees in the distance behind it. The large road leading up to its front was entirely flat. John swallowed nervously, only the very rich lived in places like this, it was rather like the large palace he had seen with his father, the one he was told the queen lived in. 

There was a group of footmen there to greet them, with their dark blue jackets and stiff white colours. 

'Someone telegram Dr Jones, get him here immediately' Lord Holmes barked his orders at them. He still held Harry close to him, wrapped in the expensive overcoat. 'Someone take him down to the kitchens, get one of the cooks to make him something.' he waved his hand at John dismissively. 

John felt himself being led inside, Harry and Lord Holmes disappearing from view. He kept asking where his sister went, but no one answered him. 

He was led inside to a large kitchen. 

'Hello.' A large women with short red hair approached him. 'I'm Patty, who are you?'

'John.' he murmured, gazing at the woman, she was rather short and round, but had a warm smile that immediately put John at ease. 

John immediately decided he rather liked this women. The kitchen was rather crowded with people peeling and chopping and talking, but no one else seemed to pay any attention to him. 

'Annie?' Patty looked round.

'Yes Miss?' a wiry looking girl appeared, her hair a dark brown was pulled into a neat bun with a few stray strands of hair covered her pretty yet rather unremarkable face, her dress was a soft peach colour with a white apron.

'This is John' Patty introduced him. 'One of the orphans Lord Holmes brought back from London, can you get him some hot soup and a few of the rolls I baked this morning?'

'Yes miss.'

John was not entirely certain what the soup was made out of, but he ate greedily, he devoured soup and the rolls within minutes of it all being put in front of him. 

'My, you were hungry weren't you?' Patty laughed. 

After he was done eating he was told to follow Annie and another maid, they led him into yet another room opposite the kitchen.

John did not know what was happening until he saw the large sink which had been filled with water. Staring at the large sink he felt his blood run entirely cold. Harry was right, they did drown orphans, they had ended up in an orphanage after all and now John was going to die without saving his sister. He became to cry, and scream. One of the maids tried to undo his shirt but he kicked her away.

'I don't want to be drowned' he sobbed.

'What in god's name is going on?' Patty stormed into the room. 'What is that ungodly racket?'

'It's John miss' Annie replied 'he says we are going to drown him'

Patty sighed 'Oh give him here.' Patty quietly explained to John that they wanted to give him a bath, apparently he had to sit in a large pool of water for this to happen. John was not entirely sure whether or not to believe her, but he liked Patty and so he let her help him undress. She handed his clothes to Annie. 

'What should I do with them miss?'

'What do you think? Burn them! Make sure the lice don't get on you. Get John some of master Sherlock's old clothes, they should fit him.'

John wondered what a Sherlock was, the strange word sounded incredibly exotic as he repeated it in his mind. 

The water was rather warm as John was lifted up into the sink. This bathing business was actually remarkably pleasant, Patty rubbed a bar of soap all over his body and face. When they were done the water had turned a black colour. 

He was taken out of the sink and dried, John had never felt quite so clean in all his life. By this time Annie had returned and he was dressed in breeches, long socks, a soft white shirt and black waistcoat. It was a little on the large side, but John did not mind, the fabric was so soft against him, and there was no lice or any holes whatsoever. He was also given new shoes which pinched slightly at the toes, but again John did not complain as he enjoyed the clapping sound they made against the kitchen tiles. 

He was led upstairs, the grand staircase full of portraits of people he did not recognise. The carpet throughout the house was a thick red, the same shade as the carriage seats. John wondered if Lord Holmes had a taste for it. Annie led him inside another room. 

'This is the play room, you will stay here while Polly and I make a room for you.' Annie smiled brightly at him. John decided he rather liked Annie to. 

'You are very handsome now, in your new clothes Master John.'

John blushed with embarrassment. 'Thank you' he murmured. 

When Annie left John decided to have a good look round. The room was full to the brim with toys. A large wooden train set just like the one John used to have lay in the centre, at the window a strange circular tube on stilts was pointing up at the sky, then there were army men, John was fascinated by the figures on the shelves. Different soldiers, some with muskets, some with swords, all with different uniforms. John wanted so badly to play with them, but he was unsure if he could touch them. 

While he was staring at them he heard to the door open. He thought maybe Annie had returned to show him his new room, but the stranger that greeted him was a another boy. He was the most extraordinary boy John had even seen. Gazing at the strange figure he felt everything around him fade away, suddenly incredibly unimportant, the tall boy just eclipsed everything else, till it faded into dust. He had thick, untamed black hair with curls pointing out in all directions, his eyes were the same shade of grey as Lord Holmes but they did not look cruel, they looked wild and mischievous. His cheekbones sharp and his top lip rose and fell in a way John had never quite seen before. 

'I'm Sherlock Holmes.' the boy told him 'What's your name?'

'John Watson' John replied shyly as he felt strangely intimidated by the taller boy. 

'Father tells me you are to be my new brother.' he tilted his head 'You do not look very much like my brother.'

John felt his hair rise at the remark 'Well what should your brother look like?' he answered haughtily. 

Sherlock smiled 'Well like the one I have got I suppose.'

'And what does he look like?'

'Fat.'

Sherlock descended into giggles, and John joined him. When they were so out of breath from laughing they couldn't make another sound Sherlock ran over to the corner of the room and grabbed two wooden swords. 

'Would you like to play pirates with me?' 

John nodded 'What is a pirate?' he asked taking the sword in his left hand. 

'Oh they are these men who sail the seven seas robbing other ships and looking for buried treasure.'

'What is treasure?'

'Oh you know, rubies and gold coins and things like that. I'll tell you what, I will be the pirate and you can be the royal navy trying to catch me.'

John decided he really liked the sound of this game, and for the next few hours he chased Sherlock round the room. Screaming and yelling and laughing and making all sorts of noise as they leapt around. Sherlock was lots of fun, far more fun then Harry was. 

Far too soon Annie came back and showed John to his new room, it was large, like every other room in the house. 

It was bigger then the room he used to share with his Mother and Harry. There was an armchair and big chest of drawers, a bookshelf, writing desk and fireplace. 

Annie helped him get changed into a nightshirt and tucked him into bed. She turned off the oil lamp and left leaving John quite alone. He suddenly felt very lonely, unused to spending the night by himself. He didn't like this strange alien feeling at all, being in bed with no one beside him, he wanted to hear someone else breathing, he wanted his Mother beside him, hugging him as he slept. He wanted her to read him a story or sing him a lullaby. 

He crawled out of bed, opening the door he looked around and made sure no one was around. He crept along the carpet to the room opposite his. It took him both hands to open the big, heavy door, the door was pitch black and it took him a few seconds to adjust to the lack of light. 

'Sherlock' he whispered quietly. 

'Yes John?' the small voice answered. Creeping towards the direction of the voice John found Sherlock's bed easily. Pulling back the coves he climbed inside, immediately feeling Sherlock's warm body. 

'You're cold.' Sherlock giggled, but wrapped his arms round John regardless, hugging him tightly, just like his mother had once done. John felt warmth and happiness flood through him, as if those emotions came directly from Sherlock's fingers. 

'Sherlock I've been thinking.' John mused. 

'What about?' Sherlock asked sounding awfully intrigued. 

'Well, we are not really brothers at all are we? I mean, I am short and you are tall, I have blonde hair and yours is black, my eyes are blue and, well, I'm not entirely sure what colour your eyes are, they seem to change.' 

'I think you are quite right.'

'Really?' John was pleased he had impressed Sherlock, who must be awfully clever if he knew what things like pirates and treasure were.

'Yes, I think we are something else entirely, perhaps we should be friends instead?'

John beamed. 'Yes we should, the very best of friends.'

'I have never had a friend before.' Sherlock said sadly 'I have been awfully lonely, all my brother does all day is read books and it's very boring, now I have you I will never be alone ever again'

John felt his heart swell, he was so proud to be Sherlock's first friend. 

He turned around so his back was against Sherlock's chest, the boys arms were still wrapped around him and he felt incredibly safe and secure. He giggled as Sherlock wriggled and fidgeted behind him. Though soon he stopped and John could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest and hear the soft snores coming from his mouth. 

He shut his eyes, and soon he to went to sleep. 

End Of Chapter One.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May. 1896 and two orphans, Harriet and John Watson, slowly starve to death on the streets of London. A series of events lead them to be taken in by the mysterious Lord Holmes. As they grow John learns he has to fight in a world obsessed with birth while at the same time an obsessive love threatens to tear him apart.

Always A Watson  
Chapter Two

It was the rays of sunshine dancing over his face that caused John to flicker his eyes open the next morning. The bright yellow beams tickled his soft, dewy skin as the light waltzed across him in a merry jig, there was just possibility his mind could carry on in slumber at such a spectacle. 

Despite the long hours he had spent in slumber, he opened his eyes feeling just as exhausted as he had when he had closed them. He felt as if he had been asleep for a thousand years, so deep was the sleep he had experienced, and yet still his body felt nothing but fatigue and tiredness. It took him a few moments to remember the previous days events, to remember where he was and what had happened. Why he was in a strange bed and not wrapped in his mothers arms. 

He was suddenly quite frightened, feeling vastly intimidated by all that had happened to him. Not even his mother, with her vivid collection of wild stories could have conjured up such a tale, even her imagination did not stretch that far, and yet it had all happened, he had lived and breathed it unfolding before him. This was certainly not the pages of a novel, or the product of the imagination of some flighty female, this was his life. He was not sure what was happening, what was going to occur in his future or what the conclusion of such events would be, like a ship in a stormy sea all he could do was watch himself be carried along by such strange and uncontrollable tides. 

Now that he had been plucked from all he had known, now that the change had settled and he had had time to digest all that had happened it left him feeling nothing but fear and regret. He wished he had never left his mothers side, he wished so badly that she was still here with him, he wished and wished and wished, but he knew that nothing would change, he was too old to believe in fairy stories now and he knew people never came back from death. He tried to imagine his mother in heaven, which is where they told him all the good people went, he tried to imagine her with the angels and Jesus, but he could not, instead of that his brain conjured up an image of Mr Bridgely, dumping his mother into the cold, hard ground.

He screwed up his eyes and held his hands over his ears, whimpering to himself as he tried to block out the horrid pictures his brain kept splashing across his vision, his mother in the earth, his mother rotting away, his mother being eaten away by rats and worms. He pictured his mothers face, but it was not his mother, the face was not kind or loving, the mouth wide open as if contorted into a scream, the skin was lifeless and grey, the face had no eyes, instead worms were crawling through the empty sockets. John cried in distress. 'No, please no' 

'John?' a small voice whispered beside him. John opened his eyes and met Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock, his friend. Sherlock, with his wild hair and mischievous grey eyes. Sherlock, whose arms were still wrapped so tightly around him. John clung to his friends nightshirt, his small fingers gripping the soft, white fabric tightly. 

'What is wrong? Something is wrong, I do not like it.' Sherlock furrowed his brows, obviously confused as to what was happening in front of him, as if he were watching some foreign play he did not like nor understand. John held back the tears, ashamed that he could not stop them, ashamed that he could not think of his mother without them forming. He would not cry in front of Sherlock, he did not want Sherlock to think of him as weak. He needed to stop crying as he was certainly not an infant, he was the Royal Navy who had captured Sherlock the pirate the night before, and the Royal Navy certainly did not cry.

'I'm fine.' John choked out. 

Sherlock gave him a queer expression, John could see his brain trying to process the scene playing out in front of him. 

'You are sad' Sherlock stated matter of factly, his eyebrows still furrowed. 'I do not like it when you are sad'

John bit his lip, terribly feeling guilty for the lost expression on his friends face.

'My mother died yesterday' he explained quietly. He found he was most unable to say what was troubling him in anything other then a whisper. 'I miss her, terribly'

There was a long pause. John closed his eyes and settled his head in Sherlock's shoulder. It was terribly bony, but to John it made him feel as peace. The heat from Sherlock's soft skin, the smell of him, the softness, his curls tickling him when they brushed up against his nose. 'This could be home' John thought to himself.

'What is it like? Having a mother?' Sherlock whispered. 

'You mean you don't know?' John was puzzled. What a strange question to ask. Surely every boy knew what it was like to have a mother?

'No. My mother died to but I do not miss her' 

John remembered being in the carriage with Lord Holmes, being pulled along by that big horse. He remembered him telling him about his wife, who had died giving birth to his son. Suddenly John understood. 

He thought for a moment, thinking how on earth he could explain a mother. He though very hard, knowing this information was important and he had to get it right. 

'Mothers are the most wonderful things in the whole world. They smell nice, and are warm, they hug you and rock you to sleep and tell you stories, and they love you, and they never stop loving you even when they have a cough.'

John stopped, feeling a tear roll down his cheek. His mother was all those things, all those things and he could never get them back, for the first time he realised what he had lost. 

He felt Sherlock squeeze him tighter. Holding him in a tight embrace, saying nothing. He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew the door was being swung open and in walked Annie with a large silver tray. 

'Awww don't you two look sweet' she cooed over them, setting down the tray and walking over to the window, undoing the latches to let in the cool, crisp, morning air. 

John looked at the tray, containing a large plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, with a smaller plate of bread. His stomach grumbled once again. 

'Where is John's tray?' Sherlock asked, pouting, 'I want him to have breakfast with me.' he said insistently. 

Annie shook her head sternly 'Lord Holmes's orders Master Sherlock. You father said John is to have his breakfast in the kitchens'

Sherlock pouted once more, grabbing John's hand in his own. 'Well then I will have my breakfast in the kitchens to.' he said defiantly.

'Oh for goodness sake' Annie put her hand on her hips, 'Can you two be apart for more then five minutes?'

John tried to hide his smile, he felt so chuffed that someone like Sherlock could want his company so badly. He wished he could have his breakfast with Sherlock, but he knew his place. He didn't want to do anything that could upset Lord Holmes, he was fearful that if he did he would be taken back to London and never see Sherlock or Harry again.

'It's okay Sherlock, I will have my breakfast and come back as soon as I can' he promised. 

Annie helped him out of bed and went into his own room to get dressed.

'You and master Sherlock are getting on well.' Annie smiled as she helped his with his shirt buttons. 

'He is my friend' John stated proudly. 

Annie smiled. 'I'm glad, he is such a strange boy, he needed someone, I don't think I've ever seen him smile before and now here you are.......' she halted halfway. Looking down at the floor and biting her lip. John sensed Annie wanted to say more but she did not say another word on the subject. 

'My brother Joseph is your age.' She said quickly. 'He will start working here when he is old enough. You will have to meet him, I think you two would make great friends. 

The kitchens were just as John remembered them, frantic and noisy, people rushing everywhere. A constant hive of activity. John sensed that the kitchens were the beating heart of the entire home. They seemed to have so much life and energy. Quite unlike to quiet stillness of upstairs. Being in the kitchens was exactly like being back in the East End, if there was one thing John was struggling to adjust to, it was the quiet. 

'Hello Master John' Polly appeared placing a bowl of porridge in front of him 'Sleep well?' 

John nodded, thinking back to how Sherlock had curled himself around him, he did sleep very well. He caught Polly's eyes and to his surprise she did not meet his gaze, looking away immediately. She wore a small smile, though John did not think the smile was genuine, it was the same smile his mother used to give him when she told him she was fine, when John knew she was not. She brushed the front of her apron as if she was trying to compose herself and handed him a spoon. On further inspection he noticed her eyes were red and puffy. 

He pushed down the porridge so the milk flooded the spoon and slurped, the taste was utterly delicious, it had been so long since he had had milk and the white liquid was thick and creamy. The porridge was still piping hot but he ate ravenously, his appetite insatiable. 

As he ate he kept an eye on Polly, she was cutting something up when suddenly she stopped and buried her head in her hands. John kept watching as Annie went up to her and wrapped her arms around the smaller woman's shoulders. John was confused, he didn't understand why Polly was so upset, or why she kept putting her hand flat on her stomach, was it something he had done? Had he upset her somehow? He racked his brains but couldn't think of anything he had done that would have saddened her, maybe it was because he had slept in Sherlock's bed, was she angry at him for doing that? He continued eating his porridge as Annie comforted her. He knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, his mother had told him many times, but he could not help but listen in on their hushed words.

'What am I going to do?' Polly sniffed, she continued rubbing her tummy with the palm of her hand. John wondered if maybe she had an stomach ache. 

'Don't worry' Annie whispered. 'Charlie is a good man, he will do the right thing by you' 

John did not know who Charlie was, or what this thing he was being expected to do. He finished his porridge quietly while pondering the unanswered questions. 

When he was done he noticed a man entering the room. He was older then the other footmen John had seen hurrying about, slicked black hair which was going grey and the temples. He wore the same stiff white collar and white shirt yet he wore a black waistcoat and jacket rather then blue. There was an air of quiet authority about him. He looked like a man who only spoke when absolutely necessary, yet could command an entire army of men on a single sentence. He had not said a word yet John had sensed the air in the room had changed, it crackled with a strange mixture of fear and respect. Everything suddenly pulled towards the man. 

'Morning Jenkins' Patty said cheerfully, breaking the silence. John looked around, everyone had stopped what they were doing and stared at the man. Though when Patty spoke he sensed them relax somewhat. 

'Master Watson?' Jenkins spoke in a calm yet slightly menacing tone.

'Yes sir?' John stuttered.

'Lady Harriet wished to speak with you, follow me'

John's heart began to beat quickly, he had been so wrapped up in Sherlock he had completely forgotten about Harry. He followed the man through the hall, out of the kitchens at through the main body of the house. They walked up the stairs, through ornately decorated corridors with portraits and tables filled with vases of flowers. The rich red carpet and perfectly painted walls, the long hallways displayed an absolute tapestry of wealth. 

Soon they came to a large door, the man stopped and knocked sharply on the dark wood.

'Come in' John heard his sisters voice call out. 

The man opened the door and stepped into the room, John did not follow, instead he stood still, frozen to the carpet in the corridor utterly dumbstruck. 

'John Watson is here to see you.' 

There was a long pause in which John pondered what he should do, should he walk inside? Did he have to wait for the man to get him? 

There was another long pause, the man coughed, then look at him, John stared back. The man sighed and walked back to where John was standing.

'Come on then' he instructed John, grabbing him by the shoulder and leading him into the room.

The room itself was huge, twice the size of his own and Sherlock's, in the centre was a giant four poster bed, which swamped Harry making her look even smaller then she was, her tiny body wrapped up in the blankets, her back propped up by a pile of enormous pillows, her fingers clasped round a flowery cup and saucer. 

'John!' she squealed happily, beaming at him. John smiled weakly back. She looked ridiculously small in the vast bed, her blonde hair sprayed out on the white pillows. He noticed her damaged wrist was bandaged. John was incredibly curious at the fabric wrapped around her hand. He wanted to study it and know how it was made, he had a sudden urge to know how such things were created. He wished he could have seen the doctor apply the bandage so he would know how to wrap it properly. 

'Is that all Lady Harriet?' Jenkins asked, his voice low and deep. 

'Not quite, father is taking me to London today, could you please have Brown prepare the coach?'

'Yes my lady.' John watched Jenkins bow his head at his twin sister. 

'Thank you Jenkins, you may leave now.'

Jenkins turned at left, John sat himself in a chair nearby, swinging his legs in the open air as his feet could not yet reach the floor.

'Father is taking to London today John, isn't it exciting? He is going to buy me lots of dresses, he promised. And a doll.' Harry beamed again, though she did not gaze upon her brother, instead she focused her attention to the window and what was beyond, her mind far away. 

John was confused. Why was Harry calling Lord Holmes father? They already had a father, and why was Harry so excited at going to London? It was as if she had forgotten they had lived there once, a time that felt so long ago. A time that felt it was now contained in a jar, unreachable, untouchable, he remembered his mother again, he felt the tears prick behind his eyes. 

'Exciting?' he mused 'Yes I suppose it is' he said meekly not wanting to argue. 'Let Harry live in her dream', he thought to himself, what good would come of quarrelling? 

He was suddenly very angry, his sister was not 'Lady Harriet', she was Harry. She was not taken to London to buy dresses, she ran and played and kicked and bit. This strange creature lying in the bed was not his sister at all. He felt as if his sister was gone, had died in the room along with his Mother, replaced by an utter stranger. Someone John did not know, had never met before. 

He wished to yell, to shake his sister and make her remember, remember their mother and their father, the one room with the one candle. To remember stealing bread to survive. Yet he could not, he could not do anything but stare at the floor and scowl. 

He kicked his legs. Kicking the empty air around the chair. Though his sister did not notice his distress. Sipping from the cup gently. Gracefully. Again John felt annoyed. Harry did not drink gracefully, she gobbled everything up like all poor children did, eating everything as if it was a last meal. No, Harry did not drink gracefully, but it seemed Lady Harriet did. 

'Do you know what this is John?' She giggled. 'It is hot chocolate. Isn't it wonderful?'

John, being only a child did not know much, but he new only the obscenely wealthy could afford cocoa. John had never had chocolate, even when father was with them they could not afford it. He had only heard of it, as if it were a myth, something from the stories his mother used to tell. 

The door opened once more and in walked Lord Holmes. John was quite frightened, the cold eyes brought nothing but intimidation. He was a tall man, thin, yet he seemed to fill the entire room with his presence. 

'Father' Harry giggled. 

'Good morning Harriet.' he said gently. 

'I've told Jenkins to prepare a coach for us.' She said quickly. 

Lord Holmes smiled at her, his gaze softened as he looked at her. 

'I've been thinking of the dresses, can I have a pink one? And a blue? Also a doll, remember? You promised me a doll.'

Lord Holmes laughed 'Whatever you wish Harriet.'

He finally looked at John, the small boy feeling pinned by his gaze. 

'My son is outside, if you do not speak with him soon I think he will implode.'

John leapt out of the chair. 'Goodbye' he mumbled to his sister, wanting to get out of her room quickly. He was thankful that Sherlock was outside, feeling it provided the perfect excuse to run. He wanted to be back with Sherlock, that strange magnetism he had felt when they had first met pulled at him. 

He found his friend pacing outside. His hand crossed behind his back.

'There you are' Sherlock grinned , running up and grabbing his hand. 'I want to show you the house, I can give you a tour if you like, we have grounds to and there is a large tree I wish to show you, I climb it sometimes, I can get to the very top.' he babbled, speaking very, very fast. Sometimes John sensed Sherlock spoke so fast when he was excited because he felt he would somehow lose all the words if he did not get them out quickly enough, as if they would just float away into the air. As if they were tiny butterflies he had to capture and press into a book, or else they would fly away and he would lose them forever. 

John thought for a moment and he decided he rather liked the idea of this, to explore. He threaded his fingers through Sherlock's hand and allowed the taller boy to lead him through the hallway.

'These are fathers rooms' he gestured with his hands at the dark wooden doors next to Harry's. 'I am not allowed inside them.' Sherlock explained as they walked along. 

He stopped just in front of a portrait, John noticed he gazed up picture with a most curious expression in his eyes, a mixture of longing and puzzlement. John flicked his eyes from his friend to the portrait. 

'Vera Holmes' was inscribed at the bottom of the frame, inside was a woman, a woman entirely still, completely encased in her painted world, a cheery grin forever inscribed on the oiled canvas. Rosy cheeks, sandy blonde hair, large blue eyes, John thought she was quite beautiful. 

'That is my mother' Sherlock explained to a bewildered John. 'I never knew her' he continued quietly. 

John was quite amazed that this woman before him was Sherlock's mother. She was so different, the very opposite of his friend. Sherlock dark where she was fair, she was soft where Sherlock was sharp and angular. Chubby cheeks were Sherlock's could cut. There was nothing of this woman in Sherlock, whenever he looked at Sherlock all he could see was the imposing figure of Lord Holmes, he was not sure why but he got the distinct feeling Sherlock resented that.  
'They said she died bringing me into this world.' 

John could sense Sherlock getting upset and he did not like it. He did not like that his friend looked so distant, so upset and so far away from him. He was nothing like the smiling figure who had played pirates with him. 

John squeezed Sherlock's hand, 'Come on, show me something else.' 

They carried on walking, Sherlock showed him the hidden hallways and obscure rooms, John squealed with delight when Sherlock showed him a large knight in shining armour, standing upright as if a man was still inside. He looked just like the knights his mother had told him about. 

'I call him Arthur, like King Arthur'

John was suddenly back in the one room with the one candle, with his mother curled up in the shabby bed and her telling him about the adventures of the great King Arthur, the weasel Lancelot and Guinevere. Of the famous magician Merlin and all the adventures they had. 

'I wish I could be a knight. I would be brave and fight dragons and rescue maidens.' John day dreamed. 

'Knights are dull' Sherlock scoffed. 

'Why?' John snapped back. He did not know why anyone would not like Knights, they were the most wonderful things. He dreamed of picking up a sword and fighting evil and riding a big white horse, yes, he would make a good knight, King Arthur would have wanted him for his round table. 

Sherlock shrugged casually. His posture suddenly appeared rather slouched. 'Because they are on the side of the angels, that's why.'

John was rather unsure what Sherlock meant by this, but he said nothing.

'That is my fathers study, I am not allowed in there either.' Sherlock pointed to yet another room, though John was already quite lost in the maze. Without Sherlock there to guide him he didn't think he would ever find his way. 

'And this is the library.'

Sherlock led him to a large room filled with rows upon rows of books. Coloured spines reaching out as far as the eye could see. John had never seen so many in all his life, they seemed to fill every available space. 

He suddenly spotted a young man sitting in a large armchair, his nose buried in a large novel. The top of his reddish hair was all he could see, his face remained quite out of sight, obscured by the book he was currently engrossed in. Despite his youth he gave the appearance of a man who had seen too much. Old and worn yet vitally important. 

'Good morning Sherlock' he said without moving his head from the page. 

John sensed Sherlock quietly seethe. 

The young man got up from the chair and strode over to them. Towering over the small boys. He held out his hand to John, who was quite unsure whether or not he was supposed to take it. There were so many social cues and practises that he did not know about, that he was quite bemused by, unable to know what is the proper way, he had never felt so out of place before in his entire life. 

'You must be John Watson.'

John took the hand and shook it, the grip was strong and tight. 

'Yes I am' he mumbled timidly. Like Lord Holmes and Sherlock the young man seemed to fill a room simply by being there. Imposing and impressive. 

'I am Mycroft Holmes' the man said letting John's hand go 'Are you enjoying our humble abode?'

John shuffled on his feet. 'Yes, very much so yes, I am.' he stumbled over the words, just like his father and brother Mycroft seemed to be above everyone and everything. John felt his mouth go dry, all conscious thought just drained away, as did his ability to speak.

He felt Sherlock snatch his hand back, glaring at his older brother angrily. 

'Go away Mycroft, John is my friend not yours' Sherlock hissed, squeezing his hand tightly and sticking out his bottom lip. 'Come on John, let's go.' 

Mycroft gave them a funny little smile, 'Dear dear Sherlock. where are you manners?' he taunted. Sherlock let out out a snort and turned on his heels, dragging John with him.

'Ignore my brother.' Sherlock said insistently, 'Fat imbecile that he is'

John was quite unsure why there was so much tension between Sherlock and his brother, but he did not ask, letting Sherlock quietly seethe in his own world, he did not feel that he could ask, it seemed so cleat that was territory where he was not welcome. 

Sherlock led him outside into the grounds. His heart leapt for joy as he left the stuffiness of the house. The gardens wide and open to him, green and lush under the spring sun, the rich green bathing under the bright sunlight. John felt the warm, crisp air swim through his lungs. So different to the heavy polluted air that he was used to. 'Such a wonderful place this is' John thought to himself, he had rarely felt grass beneath his feet before, nor soft soil. He was used to bricks and motor, to roads and stone. John did not think there was anything more satisfying then walking in an English country garden, and such a large one at that. To see such colourful flowers, neatly trimmed hedges and tall trees that reached up to the sky. To hear the birds sing their pretty chorus. It made him feel so very peaceful, the world of man had brought him nothing but pain, yet this was nature, this was how things were meant to be. It filled and soothed his soul in a way buildings and smoke never could. 

'The stables are over there' Sherlock nodded his head to a small collection of barns. 'I will take you riding one day' 

John tried to imagine himself on top of a horse, however he could not, the concept seemed so utterly remote and foreign to him. Orphans from London most certainly did not ride horses, that was left to rich country folk, folk like Sherlock and Lord Holmes. Once more he felt a twang in his heart, he felt so utterly lost and out of place here. Harry may have transformed herself into Lady Harriet so completely and without fuss, yet he could not, he was just John Watson. He was five years old and lived with his mother and sister in a shabby room just off George's street. He did not belong here.

'Come on. I want to show you that tree I was telling you about' Sherlock pulled at his hand as he had done so many times that day. They walked along the long green grass of Sherringford Hall, the sunlight beating down on them. John felt the soft soil underneath his feet and briefly though about running away. He could go back to London, scavenge for food and steal bread where he belonged, maybe he could even find Mr Bridgely and ask to live in that one shabby room. He could survive, he had enough wits to survive. If his mother were still alive he would still be there now, fighting to live another day. That was his world, not this, not a world were breakfast was delivered on a tray and Knights were stood in corridors. 

Yet, as soon as he thought of it there was something in his heart screaming no, something telling him that he must not, under any circumstances leave. He found, in his limited capacity as a boy of five would find, that this was something most confusing, something he had never felt before, and yet, strangely, he rather had. It was the same feeling he had felt when Sherlock had asked him to play. He realised that his heart would not allow it, that he was now tied to Sherlock and nothing inside of him wanted to let that go. It was rather like the sensation he had felt when lying in his mothers arms, that this was home, that this was where he should be, and how on earth could he ever leave? 

It was peculiar, he thought, most odd in fact, at how quickly he had found himself tied to this strange yet utterly remarkable boy. After all he had only known him for a very short time. This time yesterday the name 'Sherlock Holmes' had never entered him consciousness, had never passed his lips or sung in his ears. Now he was suddenly everything to John, a instant connection he both savoured yet feared. He was afraid, very afraid, at how his happiness was so tied up in someone else, for how would he survive if he lost what felt like the other part of himself? How would he cope with that sudden sick pang of loss he had felt when he contemplated leaving? Sure he had only felt it for a few moments, there few mere seconds the thought was inside his head, but it was long enough to know it was something he never wanted to feel again. 

Though what if Sherlock ended up just like his mother? What if he to started coughing terribly? He had already lost so much, if he could lose his mother then wasn't it inevitable he would lose Sherlock to? What if he lost Sherlock and had to bury him into the ground for the worms and rats to eat away? He dispelled these thoughts immediately. 'No' he said sternly to himself 'We mustn't think of these things, we mustn't'. 

Sherlock was fun, and exciting, and dangerous and he was John's only friend. His true friend. His darling friend. He was special, special because he had asked a shooting star for him and now he had appeared as if by magic. 'The star would be upset' John thought if he were to ungrateful for his gift. It would take Sherlock away. Maybe Lord Holmes would find out how utterly ungrateful and selfish he was and put him on one of those large ships bound for Tasmania? 

Sherlock seemed quite unaware of his friends anguish as they strolled along the grounds, hand in hand. He began to tell John of the types of birds they saw, the types of trees and how you could tell what they were by the shape of their leaves. How when autumn came their leaves turned brown and by winter they were entirely bare. John listened avidly, glad to have something to distract his mind from the worry that seemed to never leave it. 

'Here it is' Sherlock squealed 'This is my tree, I climb it a lot, no one else does so it is mine. Though, I suppose we can share.' 

John blushed, he could not quite believe Sherlock would want to share something so important, and something that belonged to him. Harry never shared anything. 

The tree was tall, John could not quite see the top, it looked so solid and strong, so ancient, as if here since the dawn of time. Never moving, constantly there reaching up towards the sky. Large branches curling this way and that. 

'Wow, it is awfully tall isn't it?' John gaped, shielding his eyes from the gaze of the sun as he tried to see the very tip.

'Come on' Sherlock instructed, grabbing hold of a branch and hauling himself up, John watched in a mixture of admiration and pure envy at how easily Sherlock managed this, he looked like a cat, climbing with utter elegance into the branches.

'Hurry up John!' Sherlock said insistently. John tried to reach the branch, yet due to his size he had to stand on the tips of his toes. He could just about curl his fingers around the branch, then with all his might he scrambled up, kicking his feet out and trying in vein to find his footing. He was envious of his taller friend who has managed this with such precision, when he felt clumsy and awkward. When he finally found himself inside the lower branches of the tree he stood still for a few moments catching his breath.

'Up here John' he heard Sherlock yell. 

'Coming' John shouted back. He then followed Sherlock's path. Twisting up and over the branches till he had caught up. He felt like an explorer going out on a grand adventure. He found his friend sitting quite content right near the top branches. Holding his arm around the trunk of the tree and his leads dangling quite dangerously. John copied his friends position, though he felt himself grip just that little bit tighter. 

'My, you can see everything up here.' John exclaimed in wonder. 

He could see well beyond Sherringford Hall, to the trees and hills beyond. He gazed at the front of the house. The large black coach and horse that had brought him here was stood still, right by the front entrance. He saw his sister skipping down the steps, her hand grasped inside Lord Holmes palm. Her hair was done up in tight ringlets, with a blue ribbon running through the golden curls. Again John was struck by how she did not seem like Harry at all, she was not his sister, she was a doll. He watched Lord Holmes escort her into the cab and then they set off. He felt his heart pang for reasons he was quite unsure of. 

'You know Jenkins told me once of a story about a tree, King Charles the Second was hiding from Cromwell, they were looking for him forever but could never find him. Turns out he was hiding in an old oak tree'

'Is that true?' John asked. Sherlock shrugged.

'Must be' 

John wondered what it must have been like to hide in a tree, he supposed they must make good hiding spots. You could see far and wide, but entirely hidden by the leaves and branches. 

'He was awfully luckily it wasn't winter' Sherlock continued 'or else they would have found him straight away.'

John laughed, still unsure if the story was true or not, it seemed so utterly absurd, a king hiding in a tree? 

'John look' Sherlock whispered, interrupting John from his thoughts.

'What?' John replied having not quite heard him, immediately Sherlock put a long finger to his lips in order to silence him, he pointed down to the ground. Two figures were stood beneath them, a little way away next to some smaller trees, shadowed from the sun by the branches. Away from the glare of the occupants of the house John realised no one but them would have seen them. 

'That's Polly.' John whispered as quietly as he could 'She is my friend.' He recognised her immediately, however he did not recognise the man with her. He had not seen the auburn haired gentlemen before. 

'What do you think they are talking about' Sherlock asked. John felt his heart flutter, Sherlock was asking him a question, him, no one else. Sherlock wanted to know what he thought, he felt deliriously happy, he tried to hide his blush by making his voice low and stern.

'Perhaps they want to climb the tree?' Yes he thought, that was a good guess, after all why would someone stand at the bottom of a tree if not to climb it? 

Sherlock pouted as soon as the words left John's lips. 'Well they can't climb this tree' he huffed 'This is our tree, no one else is allowed to climb it.'

Again John felt his heart flutter, 'our tree' whereas before Sherlock said it was 'my tree'. 

A tree, he owned a tree, with his best friend. Having a tree and a best friend, why, that was better then all the train sets in the world. 

Suddenly the male figure leaned dangerously close to Polly, John was quite unsure why, then he saw his lips encase hers. 

'What an earth are they doing?' Sherlock asked clearly bemused by the action 'Why is he trying to eat her head?'

'No' John giggled. 'They are kissing' John knew what kissing was, his mother had kissed him plenty of times, though never like that, she always gave him small pecks on the cheeks or lips, this was long, and lingering. 

'Really?' Sherlock made a face of someone who had seen something so utterly new and was not sure what to make of it. 

'Has anyone ever kissed you before?' John asked. 

'No they have not' Sherlock said quite suddenly 'Not father or the maids, though I suppose my mother may have kissed me if she had lived long enough. Maybe she did, they never told me.' he said sadly. 

John felt very glad he remembered mother, and that he remembered mother loving and kissing him and holding him in her arms. John could not imagine not knowing what his mother smelled like, what she looked like beyond one picture. Then he realised Sherlock would not miss this, that his mother was a total stranger to him. He was unsure why this made him feel so sad. Both their mothers were dead, so why did John feel so lucky? It seemed such a dangerous notion to think, that in a world where the only things that truly mattered were wealth and class, that he, John Watson, an orphaned boy from the capitals underclass, could be better off then the son of a Lord, through such a simple act of knowing a mothers love. 

'You know, when I was having my breakfast she seemed really upset over something, I'm not sure what, but she was crying awfully hard.' John mused. 

'Well then.' Sherlock concluded 'This is what adults must do to cheer each other up, so they are not upset any more.'

'Yes, they must' John thought Sherlock was quite right, whenever he was upset his mother had kissed him. 

Sherlock and John continued to watch the two figures below them, eventually they moved away, Polly going back towards the house and the stranger walking towards another part of the garden. They climbed down, John careful not to get any splinters in his hands, he jumped down from the bottom branch and once more his feet felt solid ground.

'You know what Sherlock, I think that is the highest I have ever been in my life.'

Sherlock smiled 'Yes, nothing is as tall as our tree, it is the tallest tree in the entire world.' 

Sherlock then decided to show him the woods that were adjacent to the grounds. Again telling John everything he knew, he showed him sets where badgers lived, and streams, and something called a frog which John had never seen before. At first he was quite scared of the loud noise the frog made, but when Sherlock told him it was harmless he found himself transfixed by the green creature. He had never seen something move in such a way, using its hind legs to launch itself into the air. 

'You know frogs come from tadpoles, which are these tiny things that only have a head and a tail, I will have to show you them sometime.' 

John wondered if there was anything Sherlock didn't know. 

'The stream gets a bit deeper along here. Want to bathe?' Sherlock asked insistently 'It is quite warm so the water should be quite pleasant.'

'I don't know how to swim.' John admitted.

'I will teach you.'

They undressed by the bank of the stream and Sherlock squeezed his hand, telling him where the water was shallow enough so he could stand without his head being immersed. Now they were naked John began to notice how different Sherlock's body was to his own, Sherlock was slim, yet unlike John his bones did not stick out, his skin was pale, much paler then his own, where his skin was tanned Sherlock's was porcelain white, like moonlight. His legs were much longer then John's, John looked down at himself, his frame stocky and compact, and then towards Sherlock, who was so thin and tall. 

When they were deep enough that the water came to their waists Sherlock kicked off. He taught John how to kick his legs and tread water so he did not sink, he taught John the different strokes and soon John was swimming right along side him. John enjoyed the feeling of the cool water against his bare skin. He was also proud he had picked up swimming so quickly, he did not want to bore his friend with his inadequacies, yet strangely he had felt Sherlock rather enjoyed telling him new things. He remembered how his eyes lit up when he showed John the badger set, how it was made and what it was for. John was glad to have such a willing teacher. After they swam they went back to where the water was less deep and play fought. Wrestling each other, dunking each other and splashing. Soon they tired and climbed back onto the bank. Letting the sun dry their wet skin. They chatted aimlessly. Sherlock pointing out the clouds and the different shapes they made as the pristine white swirled around the bright blue. 

'Do you think that looks like a rabbit?' John pointed up at the large white object floating in the sky.

'No John' Sherlock scoffed mockingly 'it is a cumulus cloud, it is not a rabbit.' though his tone was gentle, so John knew he meant no harm. 

When they dressed Sherlock then taught him all these games to play, Sherlock pretended to be an explorer and John a savage, they played hide and seek and blind man's bluff and all sorts of games. They also wrestled, John finding Sherlock surprisingly strong. 

He was unsure how many hours he has spent exploring the woods with his friend, yet soon it was dusk, as they headed back towards Sherringford Hall, once more hand in hand, John realised he didn't want things to end. He wished he could stay in the woods, he did not want to go back to the claustrophobia of the house. 

'Sherlock, I think this is the best day I have ever had.' 

'Me to' Sherlock beamed back. 

John doubted that anyone in the whole of England, not even Queen Victoria, had had a better day then he had.

'Goodness look at the state of you two' Annie exclaimed as they walked through one of the many side doors.

'We were playing in the woods' John giggled 'Sherlock showed me a badger set, and something called a frog.'

'Yes' Sherlock laughed back 'And I taught John how to swim' he said proudly. 

'I think you both need a good scrub in the sink, you two are filthy' Annie tried to chastise, but John saw the grin she was trying to hide. 

She led them through the kitchens, once again a flurry of activity. 

'Goodness what war have you two been fighting' Patty exclaimed good naturedly, plucking a twig out of Sherlock's curls. 

'Playing in the woods apparently.' Annie informed the older woman, again trying not to laugh. 

Patty sighed 'Well, boys will be boys.' she smiled 'get them cleaned up, and once your done get Sherlock dressed for dinner, Lord Holmes will be back soon.'

'Will John be joining us?' Sherlock asked.

'No Master Sherlock, John will be having his in the kitchens.'

'But why?' Sherlock wailed. 'Harriet and Mycroft are so dull, I want John there'

'John knows his place. Now to the sink, both of you.' Patty pointed a chubby finger to the hallway, Annie leading them both away towards the sink, the same sink John thought he was going to be drowned in the day before. Though it did not seem quite so intimidating this time. John giggled as he watched Sherlock pout as soap was scrubbed into his face. They splashed each other as they were scrubbed down in the warm soapy water. 

After John had finished his meal with the usual relish Annie insisted he dress for bed. 

'I'm not tired.' John argued while exhaling a large yawn.

'Oh really' Annie laughed good naturedly. 

She led John by the hand to his room. Helping him undress into this night shirt and get into bed. 

'Night night Master John.' she smiled at him, kissing him lightly on the forehead. 

'Annie?' 

'Yes John?'

'You're my friend aren't you?'

'Yes' she laughed 'of course I am.' 

'And so is Polly?'

'Yes, goodness what's brought this on?'

'Sherlock said I was his only friend, I was wondering if it was possible to have more then one friend.'

Annie paused for a few moments 'You can have as many friends as you like Master John. Doesn't mean you love Sherlock any less. '

He smiled 'Thank you Annie.' he whispered, then turned on his side and closed his eyes. 

He awoke to the sensation of someone pulling at his shoulder. 

'John' the dark figure whispered, 'John!' it hissed again. John opened his bleary eyes, the candlelight the figure was holding hurt his eyes and he adjusted to the bright light. 

'Sherlock what is it? What is wrong.'

'Want to make a fort?'

John laughed, had Sherlock really woken him up in the dark of night to make a fort? 

'Yes, let's' 

He got out of bed and helped Sherlock pull up the two armchairs by his bed. They draped the bed linen over the chairs and climbed inside. Sherlock put the candle beside him and the warm orange glow engulfed them. 

'How was dinner?' John asked his friend, letting the curiosity get the better of him. He wanted to know what happened when they were separated. He wanted to know why Lord Holmes would not want him there. 

'Dull, you were not there, Harriet kept going on about the dresses she has now.' he huffed. 

'I wish I could be there with you' John whispered as if confessing a great secret. 

'Me to' Sherlock sighed 'its so lonely without you.'

John blushed. Watching the orange light play on the linen 'Don't you think this is spooky?' he asked his friend.

Sherlock took the candle, and then placed his fingers in front of the candle, John watched avidly at the shadows his friends fingers made on the sheet. 

'A butterfly' he squealed happily.

'Mycroft taught me how to do that, he taught me so much once.' Sherlock said sadly, he wanted to press him, but again he did not pry. 

'John?' Sherlock said suddenly after a long pause. 

'Yes Sherlock?' John jumped up, straightening his back, eager to please. 

'Do you hate me?'

'What? Of course I don't! Why would you ask such a thing. 

His friend did not turn his head to meet with John's distressed cry, he continued to look at the shadows he was making on the white cloth. 

'Because everyone does. Mycroft.' there was a long pause in which John wondered if Sherlock was about to cry, he did not, he wiped his eye and sniffed 'he taught me everything, all about the trees and the badger sets, then one day he stopped. I think that father told him that I killed mother, and that is why he hates me.'

John was stunned, he hated seeing his friend in such bleak turmoil, and once again, just like with his mother, he felt so utterly helpless. 

'I don't hate you Sherlock, you are my best friend and for that reason I love you.'

Sherlock gave him a weak smile. 'I am glad someone loves me.' he wrapped his arms around his knees and brought them up to his chest, resting his chin on the kneecap. 

'I wish so badly that I had not killed her, so then Mycroft would have no reason to hate me and he would still play.'

John racked his brains, he knew, as a best friend, that it was his duty to do something, he also knew he was a man, and therefore he had to do what adults did to comfort their friends. A brief idea came to him. Sherlock was upset, and he had seen what adults did when they saw a loved one who was upset. 

'Sherlock?'

'Yes' came the feeble reply, Sherlock was lost in his own tiny world, John was unsure if he even realised he was still there, though John was undeterred, he would be a good friend.

'Sit up straight.' Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at him but John gave him a stern look and he complied. 'Close your eyes' he instructed, then when he saw Sherlock follow his request, closing his eyes and shutting off his view of the world, John leaned forward, placing his small, delicate mouth over Sherlock's, just like he saw Polly and the stranger doing that morning. This is what grown ups to to cheer each other up, and John was a grown up, so this is what he should do.

The first clear thought John felt, after adjusting to the fuzzy feeling that caused him to lose all sense of himself, was just how warm Sherlock's lips were, he thought they would be cold, like marble, and yet they felt so soft against him. The second thought was that this was wonderful, a wave of happiness seemed to flow right through him. It seemed such a simple yet strange act, to place ones lips against another's, and yet, well, John could not quite explain it. He did not know why feeling John against him felt so good, only that it did, and he savoured such intimacy and such a warm, delicate touch.

They stayed still, for only a few moments, cast like a statue in their present embrace. It was John who pulled away first. 

'You taste like soap' he giggled. 

Sherlock looked quite bemused, as if someone who had seen the sunlight for the first time. Confused and yet breathtakingly transfixed. 

'John.' he said suddenly.

'Yes Sherlock?' He asked innocently.

'Can you do that again?'

John titled his head to the side 'Are you still upset?' he whispered, was Sherlock still sad? Had his plan failed?

Sherlock did not reply, instead Sherlock leaned forward and caught John's lips in his own. It was still and chaste. Nothing like the kiss he had seen that morning, which contained so much passion and movement, yet John did not feel that it was wrong, or that there was something he was doing incorrectly. He began to wish he could spend all day like this, kissing Sherlock and having him so close. His head swam pleasantly. The warm glow of the candlelight, the shelter of the blanket from what was beyond, it made his body fill with a unique kind of happiness he had not felt before. 

'I do not feel sad any more John.' Sherlock grinned. 

'I am glad Sherlock' John replied cheerfully 'So very glad.' 

End Of Chapter Two


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May. 1896 and two orphans, Harriet and John Watson, slowly starve to death on the streets of London. A series of events lead them to be taken in by the mysterious Lord Holmes. As they grow John learns he has to fight in a world obsessed with birth while at the same time an obsessive love threatens to tear him apart.

Always A Watson  
Chapter Three 

John held the Napoleonic cavalry man carefully in his hands, running his finger along the bright red plumage atop his helmet and the sharp point of his sword. Despite being a figurine John thought he was quite human. He was quite amazed that the makers of the toy had got him so lifelike. His moustache thick, his sharp, ice blue eyes, focused, his face rugged and weary. The horse he sat upon was a dark brown with a white blaze. It looked bold, almost tugging at the reigns, yet held expertly between the solider thighs and his hands in perfect control. John could almost hear him yell and lead the charge, his sword clutched in his fist, ready. He looked like a man who had seen war, it made John shiver. 

He carefully put the figure back into the rows of other cavalry men, anxious that if he held on too hard or too long he would break it. He knew nothing in the room belonged to him, even though Sherlock insisted everything was theirs to share and to play with, he knew it really wasn't. He knew Lord Holmes had bought none of these toys for an orphan from London. Like everything in this house John borrowed it. He was like a dog scavenging for scraps, hoping that something would fall from a plate onto the floor, but knowing that the food was not meant for him. Nothing would ever be truly for him. 

Everything felt like it was limited. His room was a spare room that was not extravagant enough for guests, his food was what the kitchen could spare, his clothes were discards from the youngest Holmes, even Sherlock himself seemed to be for another, a more worthy and higher born playmate. 

John rarely felt comfortable playing with Sherlock's belongings. Sherlock insisted John could do what he wanted with them, but John could never let his self run away from him. He always asked, begged even, to play with them. He was always so careful with what he touched, only allowing himself to play with a few things at a time. He would spend hours dreaming of playing with Sherlock's military figurines, but when they were in his chubby hands he held them as if they were made of the finest glass. 

Sherlock, as with so many things, was completely different. He played with the style that befitted all children that came from from wealth and had been lavished with anything and everything he could have wished for. It was a mixture of utter boredom and complete carelessness. He did not worry about breaking anything, for he knew he would be given more, so he always played rather heavy handedly, as if it was built to be thrown and stamped on. 

He rarely played with what John treasured, the cavalry men and infantry. They were, in his words, old and done with. Sherlock was fascinated by what was new and what held his attention, maybe that was why he adored John so much. One day, perhaps Sherlock will tire of him to, maybe he will be placed on the shelf just like the figurines and forgotten about? 

John noticed how Sherlock never attached any sentimental value to anything he owned, so much was either broken or forgotten. The small boy quickly learnt which objects in the nursery his friend no longer obsessed over and played with them when they were not playing together. He knew his place. 

Right now it was Mycroft's telescope that captivated his curly haired friend. John had no idea what it was when he had first glanced up the foreign and alien object for the first time. Despite not knowing its function at the time John was rather taken by it. The gleaming brass tube held up by thin, sturdy, wooden legs. The glittering, curved glass at the end looked rather like an eyeball pointing up at the sky. There was various complicated looking dials at the side. 

'You look into it' Sherlock squealed excitedly as he looked through the long piece of metal, 'so you can see things far away, at night you can see stars and planets.'

Sherlock adjusted the strange mechanism, and it was strange, John was slightly wary of it as he had never glanced upon one before, it didn't seem natural at all, it felt as if it was something from a different world.

'Go on, look' Sherlock instructed him, rather too insistently for John's liking. 

He glanced into the lens as delicately as he could, standing on tip toes and trying not to touch the brass as he did not want to leave smudges on it. He saw a dollop of green which his eyes eventually figured out to be a group of trees in the distance. 

It was rather extraordinary, he had never seen so far and he immediately saw why his friend was so entranced by it. It didn't feel like a toy or a plaything at all, but rather a piece of equipment with great importance. John looked once more into the lens, wishing he could move it to see what was to the left or right, but he didn't dare, this felt so grand he knew he couldn't touch. He wasn't in the world of children and make-believe any more, even if Sherlock grew tired of it John would still not dare play with it. It was elegant. Something beautiful and wondrous and boys from the east end just did not play with such things. 

'It would be sad if Sherlock did grow tired of it', John thought, 'I hope he does not, it would be very sad indeed to see it grow dust and be ignored'.

He was tempted to ask Sherlock is he could borrow it. He wanted to put it up in his room so he could look at the stars at night. John was captivated by the little balls of light that lit up the night sky but John quickly told himself that it was a very silly idea, a very silly idea indeed.

'Why don't we play with your toys?' Sherlock had asked him once. 

John immediately knew that it was a genuine question rather then a complaint. Sherlock had never expressed any annoyance at anything John had ever done. He didn't seem to mind that this sharing game mostly meant giving everything to John and receiving nothing in return. Sherlock certainly had never shown that he minded, even though it drove John mad. 

He wished this was a relationship of equals. That Sherlock was a scruffy orphan boy or he was the son of a powerful lord. Then he wouldn't have to watch what he did or said, Sherlock would never lose interest in him as he wouldn't be so high above him, staring down at the poor boy below.

It would be so simple if he could just be John, and Sherlock could just be Sherlock. It was ludicrous of course, to think that because Sherlock would never be just Sherlock. He would always be more the what John was. He was the one with the toys, and the surname, the important family and the grand house. John had none of these things and he felt their relationship could never be real or true because of that. Sherlock would always be more and sometimes John couldn't stand it. 

'I mean.' Sherlock continued, eager to expand on his point and not appearing as if he was ungrateful for what his friend provided. He told John often that he was the other half of himself, one being with two bodies. That he loved John more then anything else. John wished he could believe it. 

'Surely father would have let you bring your toys with you?' 

The queer expression on his face told John that this was something Sherlock had given much thought, and had wanted to ask for a while. Sherlock would often pretend that he was asking something off the cuff and had just thought of what John knew had puzzled him for days. He liked to know that Sherlock could not fool him as easily as he could others. 

John shrugged his shoulders, a habit he knew was looked down upon, as it was seen as rude and common, yet he could not stop it. His lowly birth would not leave him that easily. 

'I did not have anything' John stated quite simply. 

His memory flitted back to his old life, to living with Harry and his mother. He remembered his mother, picturing her face as she told him a story. It felt like a lifetime ago now. The memories themselves were quickly fading, the colour lessening, the words sounded distant, the characters he had once known so well were remote. 

When it came for him to sleep John pictured his mother as best he could, the sound of her voice and the smell of her hair. He didn't want to forget anything about her. Often, Sherlock would be sleeping beside him so he would close his eyes and pretend the sharp, angular boy was his mother, that he was still in the old bed and she was still with him. 

'Nothing?' Sherlock replied, puzzled. John knew that a boy like Sherlock would have no concept of this. Just like John had been amazed when he saw Sherlock had everything. 

'No, we didn't have toys, or food or anything.' John had never really told Sherlock about his old life, he only knew that John came from London and his mother was dead. 'We lived in one room, there was a fireplace but we couldn't light fires, it was cold, I was always cold. I did have toys once, but we had to leave them all behind because father left. Mother never told me what happened to them.'

John could see Sherlock's brain working, like the dials on the telescope, adjusting and trying to bring everything into focus. 

'Mycroft told me once that you were poor. I never really knew what that meant' Sherlock frowned, staring out of the window, off into the distance. 'It doesn't matter, who you are, where you came from, I don't think it matters at all.'

John however, knew that it did. Nothing mattered more then who one was, deep down Sherlock knew this to, though neither mentioned it. John was too kind to argue with his friend. 

John knew that Sherlock would not dwell on this, once he had found the answer to something he would quickly store it away and move onto the next question or puzzle and this would be quickly brushed under the rug as if it had never occurred. Though sometimes he would catch Sherlock looking at him intently after he had told him something about himself and he wore the same expression now. Sometimes he thought maybe Sherlock would not forget anything he had told him at all, that, if he asked, Sherlock would be able to tell him every conversation they had every had, and every small, insignificant detail that he had ever told him about his character or his life. John immediately discounted this idea as utterly ridiculous, the son of a lord caring enough to retain information on him? Impossible. 

'I want to take you into Sherringford after lunch' Sherlock announced rather suddenly. John had never been to the small town which lay beyond the trees and country roads. In fact he had never been beyond the grounds since he arrived. He felt a sense of joyous excitement at the prospect. The sun was peeking through the clouds, the midday promised to be a glorious day, far too nice to spend cooped up in the house. 

He briefly wondered if Sherlock was allowed to wonder so far on his own. The grounds and woods were one thing, but the town seemed quite another. Then he remembered Sherlock's knack for ignoring any type of rule, and no one seemed to matter what they did, so long as Sherlock was on time for dinner. 

He ate lunch in the kitchens as usual, the cold porridge that was left over from breakfast was rather filling. He didn't mind having porridge twice in one day since he could remember hunger. Briefly, he remembered snatching a loaf of bread from a lady in the street. His heart throbbed.

'Enjoying you porridge, Master John?' Polly beamed at him. Her mouth open in such a smile that John could see all her teeth. She had been in a state of near bliss all day. Singing softly to herself, laughing and telling John jokes. John was rather confused, not that Polly was usually miserable, but this level of joy was rather unexpected. 

'Why are you so happy?' John asked before he could stop himself. He winced, thinking it rather rude and abrupt of him, he waited to be chastised but Polly only laughed. 

'Can't a lady be happy, Master John?' she raised an eyebrow. John pulled a face and she laughed again. 

'Okay, I will tell you' she beamed, running up to him and taking his hands in hers. John suddenly felt quite important. 

'Promise you can keep a secret?' Polly asked him. John nodded his head vigorously. 

'Yes, I can.' 

She smiled again 'Charlie has asked me to marry him.' she squealed in delight.

John felt as if something had just deflated inside of him. Marriage? That was what Polly was so excited about? Of course he was pleased for her, he liked Polly, but surely marriage didn't warrant this level of excitement? Marriage and love were silly. Very, very silly. 

'Can I come to your wedding?' he asked, he wanted to see Polly get married for reasons he did not quite understand. 

He ignored the strange feeling he got in his stomach as he thought of love. He was surprised that now, when he thought of the emotion, he no longer thought of his mother or sister, as he always had done, but instead of dark curls and skin the colour of milk. 

'Of course. We will be getting married soon, then when the baby comes I will have to stop working here.'

'Baby?' John was surprised, he had no idea Polly was having a baby, though he wasn't entirely sure where babies came from. His mother said they were a gift from god, but she didn't go into detail. He wanted to ask Polly but immediately stopped himself, knowing it was rude. 

'Yes, I'm going to be a mother, isn't it wonderful?' John tried to understand what this all meant, but he was rather puzzled by the whole thing. Instead he focused on Polly's smile, if she was happy then he would be happy for her, even if he hadn't got a clue what it all meant. 

'I've been thinking of names, if it is a boy then I think John would be a great name, what do you think? It sounds......safe, and strong.' 

John nodded. In truth he didn't like his name, he didn't hate it, but it was hard to muster up any enthusiasm for something as ordinary as 'John'. John Watson was plain, simple. If he had a son he would call him Sherlock, for that was exotic and strange. Sherlock was a much better name then John. 

'Yes' Polly continued 'John. Safe and strong, a brilliant choice' 

Suddenly Patty burst into the room looking incredibly flustered. 'Ah, there you are Polly, go to the lounge, Jenkins wants you, Miss Collins is arriving today.'

'She is coming today?' 

'Yes!' Patty screamed 'Now go before Jenkins does himself an injury'

John was finishing the last of his porridge before Sherlock came barrelling though the door. 

'John, have you finished?' he squealed, slightly out of breath, his ears flushed pink so John knew he had been running. 

He blushed at the idea of Sherlock running to come see him. The boy seemed to have unearthed all sorts of strange and mysterious emotions inside of him, John couldn't make head nor tail of it all. 

'Oh for goodness sake' Patty exclaimed, 'Can I have a peaceful day just once in my life?' she aggressively started to peel some potatoes. 'Shoo, both of you.'

John smiled, jumping down from his chair and into the arms of his friend. Sherlock grabbed his hand and half lead, half dragged him outside into the afternoon sun. 

He wanted to tell Sherlock about Polly, about how she would be getting married and having a baby. How she told him the name John was 'safe and strong', then he remembered he had promised to keep it all a secret, so he said nothing. A promise from John Watson was certainly worth something. 

'Harriet told me at lunch that a governess was arriving today, she seems quite excited by it.' Sherlock informed him as they walked along the grounds to the large, iron gates of the house. 

The governess would make sure Harriet would be made into a true Lady who could speak foreign languages and play the piano and sing. John immediately despised her for taking Harry further away from him. 

The sun was beating down on them as they walked along the road towards the town. Once again he was rather taken aback by the countryside. He was still adjusting to grass and trees and cows. The way they would make the most appallingly loud noise which John did not like at all. Occasionally someone on horseback would pass the two little boys walking hand in hand. 

Sherlock did his best to educate John in the ways of the countryside, that the strange, long brown grass they passed was called wheat, and if you grounded it down for long enough you would make flour. John had seen flour before, of course he had, but he had no idea that this was where it came from. He also learnt that apples came from the trees they passed and so many other things that John would never remember it all. He enjoyed listening to Sherlock teach him about this strange new world, he could only hope that Sherlock didn't mind having such a lacklustre companion.

'I wish you would tell me more about London.' Sherlock asked, suddenly. John was quite startled, still unsure why Sherlock was taking such an interest in him. 

'Well, what do you wish to know'

Sherlock paused for a moment. 

'Everything. Tell me everything.' Sherlock demanded.

John laughed, it was quite typical of his friend who seemed he would never be content unless he knew everything man could possibly know. 

He was unsure where to start, so he told Sherlock about his mother and father in their old house, how is father left and they had to move. How his mother would tell him stories, how she was ill and bedridden. He told him all he could think about the east end, the smog and disease, how they starved and cried from hunger. He told him about the industry, the factories, the workhouses, the rich, the poor, the living, the dead. 

'I wish I lived in London. I will, one day.' Sherlock sighed.

John was quite take aback by such a statement, he couldn't imagine Sherlock living in the slums that he had come from. Sherlock was beautiful. He was like a bright star in the sky, there was no way he belonged in London. He belonged here, in large houses with people serving him. 

'What would you do in London?' John asked, not wanting to show he disagreed with him. 

There was a certain sadness surrounding Sherlock that John was becoming acutely aware of. He knew Sherlock had been lonely before he had arrived, but there was something else. He remembered when his mind was not occupied, that he would become bored and agitated, he remembered how Annie had described him as a strange boy before she could stop herself. Sometimes he would look at Sherlock and see the world pressing down on those small shoulders. 

'I will be clever.' his friend laughed 'I will live in London and be clever for all the world to see.'

John smiled and once again did not say what was on his mind. Denying the curly haired child to indulge in future fantasies seemed to be cruel. John felt much older then Sherlock in those seconds as they walked along. He had seen the real world. Sherlock was just a boy who was living in a dream. 

It seemed the only thing Sherringford Hall and the local town had in common was a name. The town was quite unlike the grand home John had been living in. Sherringford was small, cottages with thatched roofs and warm brickwork stood alongside a collection of shops. Ladies with bicycles cycled slowly down the lane, a man walked a collie while another carried some brown paper packages, tied neatly with white string. John was amazed, it was so open, the bright blue sky covered them as they walked aimlessly down the street, stopping only when Sherlock wanted to buy some sweets. 

The toffee Sherlock handed him exploded in John's mouth, the taste seemed to dance on his tongue. The last time he had toffee was when he was with his mother, who bought some for him and Harry. If he closed his eyes he could picture his mother standing next to him, her hand in his. 

As soon as they returned home they saw her. Slender hips and big brown eyes. Her dark hair pulled up in a neat bun and by her feet was a suitcase. She was the most beautiful woman John had ever seen in his life. 

'Hello. You must be Sherlock' She held out a laced hand for Sherlock to take. 'And John, John Watson. Am I right?' She smiled, warm smile that lighted up her entire face, he cheeks turned a light rose colour, as if she was blushing. 

'Yes.' Sherlock stammered, 'My name is Sherlock Holmes. And you are?' he said, John had never heard him so polite.

'Miss Collins, I am to be Harriet's governess.' 

John felt his heart stammer. 

'Ah, Miss Collins, I see you have met my son' came a booming voice behind him.

'Lord Holmes' Miss Collins spoke softly, again holding out her hand which Lord Holmes took in his. 

'Harriet is in her room right now, I will take you to her, then we will have dinner.' he turned to his son 'Sherlock, go get dressed, John take her bag upstairs.'

********************************************************************************

The next day it rained. John perched on the windowsill in Sherlock's room, staring as the water drowned the grounds. It was unrelenting as it struck against the windowpane, the dark clouds covered the once blue and tranquil sky. 

Sherlock fidgeted on his spot opposite John. Both felt confined, as if the window was not so much to keep the rain out, but bars on a cage. They wanted to be outside, as all young boys did. They wanted to run, and leap and yell beneath an open sky but the rain tormented them. Signalling a day of being confined between four walls. 

'I'm bored.' Sherlock wailed. 'There must be something we can do'

John thought for a moment. 'We could play hide and seek?' he asked, hopefully. He loved the game even though Sherlock was far too good at it, last time they had played his taller friend had found him in mere minutes and when it was time for John to hide it was nearly nightfall before John finally discovered him. 

He said his talents at the game were down to something called 'deduction'. He could deduce where John was most likely to hide quite easily, and when it was his turn he knew where John was least likely to look. 

'You can hide first' Sherlock sighed, sounding quite uninterested by the whole thing. He was too good at the game, John knew he would be bored by the whole affair, if he had a choice then they would most certainly not be playing hide and seek. Still, he was most glad Sherlock had decided to indulge him. 

Sherlock turned and covered his eyes with his hands. 

'1.........2........3............4...........5' he started to count. 

John panicked, he hadn't thought of a good hiding spot yet. Running out the room as silently as he could he tried to think. To win he thought he would beat Sherlock at his own game. He would try to 'deduce'. 

They had a gentlemen's agreement that it had to be in the house, deciding early on in their friendship that this method was most fair, as hiding in the grounds or the stables would mean the finder had an arduous and near impossible task. They also decided that once the had a hiding spot they had to stick with it, no moving about at all. 

He contemplated hiding in the kitchens, but Patty would quickly move him along. He knew Sherlock expected him to hide in either the play room, his room or Sherlock's, since these were the rooms designed for their use, and he did not want to disturb the adults for fear of getting in trouble. He decided he would hide in the library, Sherlock would not think he would hide in there, and he could not think of any reason why someone would be upset if they found him.

Opening the large door he looked round at the shelves of books, he ran to the sofa which lay to the back of the room and hid underneath it, it was placed against a wall so he squeezed himself right to the very back, hoping this meant he would not be easily seen when Sherlock opened the door. 'This is a good hiding spot' John thought. There was no way Sherlock would find him so easily this time. 

He didn't even dare breath, lying there and hoping he may, just once, win. He nearly howled in disappointment when he heard the door open. Sherlock must have cheated, he must have stopped counting too early and followed him. This was not fair. He was about to get out of the cramped space when he heard another set of footprints on the floor. Covering his mouth with his hands so he would not be discovered he watched as a pair of shiny black shoes stood directly in front of him. 

'This is the library' he heard Lord Holmes deep voice fill the space. 

'Extraordinary, have you read them all?' The light voice of Miss Collins replied. John did not even dare breath in case he was discovered. His hands continued to cover his lips, hoping he would not make a single sound and the pair would leave quickly. 

Lord Holmes laughed, a noise John had rarely heard. 'Goodness no. I rarely have time to read, this is my wife's creation'

There was a long pause, he heard the slight sound of Miss Collins delicate feet walk among the bookshelves. He pictured her running her hands over the spines of the old books, her pretty face against the warm oak of the bookcases. 

'The Watson twins, quite an extraordinary tale, don't you think?' Miss Collins asked, he could tell by her voice she was smiling. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up at the mention of him. 'Two orphans, taken in by a rich lord, sounds like something out of a book doesn't it?'

''Yes, I suppose it does.' 

Another pause. John wondered how long he was going to have to stay here. 

'Why did you do it?' Her voice was light, like a birds, it was quite beautiful, as was she. When he was older he wondered if she was the type of girl he would fall in love with. 

'I wanted a daughter, my wife died before she could give me one and I have no intention of marrying again. She was the only woman I ever cared for. Seeing Harriet was like looking at my wife once more.'

'And John?' Again John felt his blood run cold and his heart quicken. He was anxious at what Lord Holmes would say about him. 

'Harriet didn't want him to be left behind. I thought about putting him in an orphanage but I don't want Harriet to think I am heartless. If Harriet or Sherlock would allow it I would send him away in a heartbeat. I keep him here because I love my children.'

'Sherlock does seems rather fond of him.'

Hearing his friends name immediately reminded John they were in the middle of a game. He hoped that Sherlock did not come in and interrupt. Sherlock seemed to always know where John was, he would see him and Lord Holmes would know he had been eavesdropping. 

'I can give you a long list of things my son was fond of before he grew bored. I suspect John Watson will be another.' 

'You do not see him as a son?' 

'I have two sons already, why on earth would I need a third?' Lord Holmes remarked coldly. 

'I take it this is where Sherlock will be tutored?' Miss Collins asked, quickly changing the subject.

John was surprised the governess had known so much about his past and that he was not a Holmes at all. He wondered what else Miss Collins knew. 

'Yes, I have a fine fellow coming next week, hopefully the books will create the right atmosphere for learning. I hope they will inspire the boy in some way' 

'And John, will John be tutored to?'

Lord Holmes laughed again, though this time it was short and callous. 

'You wish me to educate John Watson? My, how frightfully modern of you.'

He heard her patter against the ground again. 

'If he is to have any type of future he needs to be educated.' She replied, slightly briskly. John adjusted his position slightly so he could almost see the man's face. He wondered if Lord Holmes would get angry at someone talking to him like that, yet he seemed to remain quite calm. 

John began to feel queasy, they were talking about him as if he wasn't there, yet he was, he was there and he could hear everything.

'And what future do you imagine he has?' Lord Holmes laughed again. The laugh was cold, like stone. 

'If you can give Harriet a future why not John?'

He saw Lord Holmes sigh and look down at the ground, John was worried he would be spotted, but Lord Holmes turned and did not notice him. 

'We live in a world where name matters above all else. It is different for women as their names are not fixed. Harriet has taken my name, then she will take her husbands. A man however, his name is fixed from birth, it can never change. Harriet can become a Holmes, but John will always be a Watson.'

John had never really thought of his future before. When one was starving and living in squalor the mind never went beyond the next meal or how they would keep themselves warm. For the first time in a long time he thought of himself as an adult, he wondered what would become of him.

'Come, I wish to show you something.' Lord Holmes cut through the silence. He heard nothing after that apart from feet and the door being opened. When it closed with a satisfying thud John let out a large breath, he still didn't dare move in case they suddenly came back.

He stayed perfectly still, thinking of what was going to become of him. What was in the world for him? A Watson with no birth right. He couldn't stay in this house forever but where would he go? There didn't seem to be a place for him, there was no where in this world he could call home. He suddenly felt quite alone. 

He heard the door once more going, burying his head in his hand he once again tried not to make a noise. 

'Found you!' he heard Sherlock squeal in delight. 

'Yes.' John replied softly. 'Yes you have'

Finally he emerged from his hiding spot under the sofa. 

'Are you okay John?' Sherlock asked sounding quite concerned. 'You look awful.'

'I heard your father say something, he says you are getting a tutor.'

Sherlock looked very angry, furrowing his brows as if he often did when confused or annoyed. 'I should have known this would happen.' he sighed 'did he say if you will you be tutored to?'

John swallowed. 'I don't think so, I do not think your father would allow it'

'Oh yes he will.' Sherlock replied defiantly 'I wont be tutored unless you will.'

'I've never been tutored before, what if I am no good?'

Sherlock bit his lip and thought for a few moments. 'Come here.' he instructed taking him over to a large writing desk that lay at the far end of the room. He took out a piece of paper and pen, dipping the nib in a bottle of ink he wrote something down. 

'See that?' he asked John. John looked at the specks of black but they made no sense to him. It looked like nothing he had even seen before and he couldn't understand what it meant.

'John. That is what it means, that is how you write your name.' 

Again John looked at the black mark, it didn't look at all like his name. 

'Would you like to try?' Sherlock asked offering him the pen. 

'I don't know how' 

'Nonsense, it is easy.' Sherlock took his hand, the wrapped his finger over him, putting the pen between John's fingers he guided him across the page.

'This is a J.' Sherlock told him as he dragged his hand down then across 'and this is an O, then a H' John felt his heart flutter as Sherlock's skin connected with his 'and lastly this is a N. J-O-H-N, John.'

John stared at the letters that was supposedly his name. 

'Would you like to do it?'

John nodded eagerly. Picking up the pen and dabbing it in the ink he tried writing his name underneath where Sherlock had written. It was slapdash, it didn't look at all like Sherlock's and his hand was covered in ink.

'Try again' Sherlock instructed, and he did. There was a slight improvement, but only slight, so he tried once more, writing his name over and over till he felt like he was getting it right. His final attempt was still not as neat as Sherlock's, but the letters were recognisable. 

Suddenly the door opened and in walked Lord Holmes.

'What are you doing?'

'Father, I taught John how to write his name' Sherlock told his father rather excitedly. Lord Holmes glanced down at the paper full of John's scribbles. The pen still clutched in his hand with the ink covering his skin. 

Lord Holmes frowned. He flickered his eyed from John to the paper. 

'You cannot write with your left hand, its a weakness. Learn with your right.' He waved his hand dismissively. 'Now go and wash that ink off. Sherlock, get dressed for dinner.'

Sherlock bit his lip 'I know you are getting me a tutor, I wont unless John joins me.'

Lord Holmes glared at him. 'We will discuss this at dinner.' 

'But'

'Now' the Lord commanded his son, and the boys did as he told them.

************************************************************************************************************************************

The next morning John followed Sherlock into the morning sunshine. It would rain again, the clouds gathered in the sky signalled the brightness would not last for long so the boys decided to make the most of the good weather. 

They walked casually along the grass towards the woods. The trees a lush green colour, John hoped they could go swimming again, he crossed his fingers for the weather to hold long enough for them. 

They saw Harry playing with another girl and Miss Collins sitting in a chair a few yards away, her head buried in a book.

John did not recognise the girl Harry was playing with, he had never seen the long red hair or bright green eyes before. 

'Hello' the girl smiled at the pair. John felt a few water droplets on the back of his neck, the rain was going to come soon.

As soon as Harry saw them John could see her mood change. The smile she wore on her face suddenly disappeared, she looked angry, glaring at John as if she wanted to shout at him. 

'Why are you here?' she demanded, hissing at her brother like an angry cat, grabbing his wrist in her hand. 'Why are you with Sherlock? Go away I don't want you here, I don't want Clara to see you.' 

'Harry?'

'Don't call me that!' she hissed again, keeping her voice low so neither Sherlock or Clara could hear them 'My name is not Harry, its Harriet.' she twisted her hand and John felt a burn in his wrist. 

'Harriet, are you not going to introduce us?' Clara giggled, oblivious to her friend distress. 

'Clara, this is Sherlock' she nodded at the taller boy, letting go of John and walking back to stand beside her. 'He is my brother. Sherlock this is Clara, the doctors daughter. Miss Collins said I should socialise more with the girls from the village.'

'Hello, wow, I've never met a Sherlock before' Clara smiled excitedly. 

'Now, come on Clara, it's going to rain and I want to show you my dolls.' Harry insisted, glancing at John anxiously. 

'Wait hold on, who are you?' She asked, staring directly at John. The young boy felt slightly queasy, he glanced at Sherlock, then Harry. He wanted to speak but found that he could not. 

'John. My name is John' he stuttered. 

Harry looked rather worried. She huffed and again tried to drag Clara away once again. 

'Is he your brother to?' 

John wanted to say that he was, but for some reason he could not find it in him to say so. Harry looked at him, then down at the ground. There was a long pause.

'Harriet?' Clara asked, clearly confused as to why Harry was acting in such a way.

John looked at her sister, her blue eyes exactly the same colour as his. He looked pleadingly at her, he wanted her to tell her friend the truth. He wanted her friend to know they were blood, that they were the same. She looked away from him almost immediately. 

'No, he is not my brother. He is no one. He is John Watson, he doesn't matter' 

John had never heard her voice sound so cold before. 

'Harriet?' he said, rather startled. Why was his sister doing this? Why did she want to forget him? 'I am your brother' he hissed back. His hands curled up into fists, his blood boiled as he felt a rage sweep through his body.

'No, no you are not.' Harry wailed 'Don't say that in front of Clara! Oh why do you have to spoil everything? I should have left you behind when I had the chance. Don't listen to him Clara, please don't.'

He snapped, before he could control himself or what he was doing he pushed Harry as hard as he could, she landed in a heap, immediately bursting into tears as mud covered her dress.

'My dress, you have got mud on my dress!'

'John, what an earth have you done?' he heard Miss Collins shout but it was too late, he ran, he ran into the woods, despite Sherlock calling after him, begging him to stop. He ran and ran as fast and as far as he could, into the woods, past the lake and trees. Till he couldn't hear Sherlock, till he couldn't hear anything but an occasionally bird and his heart pounding. 

The rain began to fall as he walked along, pushing himself further and further into the undergrowth, till he was completely lost and unsure where on earth he was.

Maybe he could make a life for himself in the wood? He could catch things and live of the water from the lake. He didn't have to see anyone ever again. No one would hurt him. He rather liked the idea of relying on himself, where his name didn't matter and he never had to see Harry ever again. 

He came to a halt, a terrible stitch in his chest. He wouldn't cry, he refused to cry. He clutched his side, trying to breathe as the acid burned his insides. He stumbled along, further and further into the undergrowth till he found a hollowed out tree trunk, he collapsed, unable to go on, curling up inside the trunk. He tried to move but couldn't summon the energy. The leaves and foliage provided some shelter from the rain, yet he was already soaked to the skin so perhaps it no longer mattered. 

He wanted his mother, he wanted to go home but where was home? He didn't want to be here, he despised Sherringford, and Lord Holmes and most of all he despised Harry. Her words rang in his ears 'He is not my brother. He is no one. He is John Watson, he doesn't matter' over and over and over again till he felt sick.

He had never hated someone as much as he hated Harry. How dare she, how dare she do this to him! He was his brother, why was she trying to hide it? Why didn't she want Clara to know who he was? Lord Holmes was right, he didn't matter. He was a Watson and he would always be a Watson. He didn't count. He wished he could go back, he wished he had died when his mother did, so he would be in heaven now far away from here. 

He huddled underneath the tree and just let the rain fall on him, after a while he could feel it relenting until eventually it stopped. He wanted to close his eyes and die, just like his mother had done. 

'Why did you leave me?' he hissed at her angrily. 'Why? You said one day someone will love me as much as you, but they don't, no one does, no one.' He yelled at her as if she was right in front of him. 'Why did you leave me like this? Why did you get a cough? Why?' 

No one did love him, if his own twin sister didn't want to acknowledge him what hope did he have? Lord Holmes said he had no future, maybe he should be begged to be put in an orphanage, held in a sink and drowned like a rat? 

He didn't know how long he lay under that tree. It felt like forever but he didn't want to move. He wanted to stay here till he was a skeleton and never have to go back to that horrid house. For hours and hours he just sat there and thought of his mother. 

He hadn't realised he had fallen asleep when suddenly he awoke, it was nightfall, the branches of the trees curling themselves around the dark blue sky like long fingers. He felt cold and scared. Wrapping his arms around his legs he held himself tightly. Sniffing loudly. 

'John?' a tender voice came out through the trees 'John, where are you?'

'Sherlock?' John answered the voice, through a gap in the wood he saw his friend emerge, his curls drenched in rain. 

'Oh John' he ran and flung his arms around him. 'Oh I was so worried' Sherlock squeezed him tight till John felt there was no air left in his lungs. 

'Jenkins' he called out through the gap 'Jenkins he is here! I found him!'

'John' he heard the butler cry out, a torch in his hand. He suddenly blew a whistle which filled the still air with its screech. 'We found him' he cried blowing the whistle again 'Sherlock has found him'

In the distance John heard voices but he could not make out what they were saying. He saw more torches, beams of light flickering everywhere.

John shivered, he was freezing though his heart felt quite warm at Sherlock's presence. 

'You will catch a cold.' Sherlock stated as he looked at him, sounding rather worried. 

'So will you' John grinned trying not to laugh at his friends expression. 

Sherlock just smiled back at him 'Friends share everything John, even colds'

Jenkins wrapped a blanket around him and picked him up off the ground, carrying him back towards the house. Sherlock never leaving their side.

As soon as he came indoors everyone rushed around him, he started to cough and wheeze.  
'John, oh John' Annie cried when she saw him. 'Oh we were so worried.' 

Patty took him off Jenkins and barked some orders at the other maids. Polly came up to him and kissed him on the cheek before running off. 

John was trying to make sense of what was going on when he saw his sister standing in the hallway.

'John! John I am so sorry, I didn't mean what I said, honestly, oh I am so sorry John please believe me.' She wailed, peeking out of the blanket John saw her face and immediately knew she had been crying. 

'I was out looking for you, along with the others, I wouldn't stop looking until we found you, I even missed dinner. I'm glad your my brother, really I am, I didn't mean it'

John smiled weakly. He was about to say something when Patty interrupted 'Now now Lady Harriet, you can speak to John in the morning, he has had quite a long day, we all have.'

Patty insisted he dry himself and go straight to bed. Carrying him up to his room she stripped the wet clothes of him and put him in a clean nightshirt, wrapping him in some blankets and giving him something warm to drink. Sherlock didn't want to leave his side though Patty insisted. She sent him away with a maid to get dry. 

'I will call for a doctor in the morning. Try and get a good nights rest. You had me very worried John Watson.' 

'You were?' John asked. 

'Oh yes, we all were. Sherlock came in in floods of tears and said Lady Harriet had done something and you had run off. We were all out there looking for you'

'Really?

'Oh yes, the gardeners, the maids, Sherlock, Harriet, even me. Walked all the way to Sherringford I did, calling your name. Oh I am so happy your safe. Who found you in the end?' 

'Sherlock.' John replied 'I was in the woods and he found me.' 

Patty smiled 'I think that boy could find you anywhere, even if you walked to the ends of the earth.' she laughed. 

John coughed again and Patty handed him her handkerchief. 

'She said I wasn't her brother and she didn't want me around. She said I was just a Watson and I didn't matter.'

Patty frowned, anger flashed in her pale eyes. John had never seen that before, she was always quite cheery.

'Now let me tell you something little John Watson, you may not be a Lord, but you do matter, you matter to me and all of us and you matter to Sherlock. People always like to say they are more important then you, but they are wrong, their not.'

'Thank you.' John murmured through his coughs, he hugged Patty tightly and kissed her on the cheek. 

'Right, I think its time you went to bed.' 

Patty tucked him in and kissed him good night on his forehead, he was drifting off when he heard the door open. 

'John?' he heard Sherlock's sweet voice call out. 

'Yes Sherlock?'

The taller boy climbed up and buried himself beside John, taking the covers and cuddling into him, a book in his hands.

'I wanted to come see you, I didn't want you to be lonely.' 

John smiled at his friend. Sherlock, he would always have Sherlock no matter what happened, he knew it. 'What do you have there?' he asked, nodding at the book. 

'Whenever I'm sick I like someone to read to me, I thought you would like it to.'

John nodded, that sounded like quite an excellent idea. 

'The book is called Treasure Island.' Sherlock told him excitedly. 'Its about pirates, its my favourite book.'

John leaned his head as close to Sherlock's as he could, almost resting on his shoulder. 

'Are you comfortable?' Sherlock asked as he opened the book up, resting his hand on the first page. 

'Yes, I am. You can begin now'

Sherlock nodded, and with that began to read. 

End of Chapter Three


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May. 1896 and two orphans, Harriet and John Watson, slowly starve to death on the streets of London. A series of events lead them to be taken in by the mysterious Lord Holmes. As they grow John learns he has to fight in a world obsessed with birth while at the same time an obsessive love threatens to tear him apart.

Always A Watson  
Chapter Four

May 1901

John could feel the blades of grass underneath his feet, the green strands scratched at the surface of his skin and tickled the soles in a way that was strangely comforting, the dew making them cool and wet. He always loved feeling it beneath his feet, soil and grass, the natural world toying with the hardness of his soles. He never wished to feel the hardness of stone, but rather the warmth and softness of the gardens of Sherringford. He enjoyed it especially when the early morning sun heated the earth, which it had done this morning. 

He whistled softly to himself as he strode over, looking back at the house and knowing soon it will stir with life. The maids and cooks will already been rushing about, but the inhabitants of any note, Lord Holmes, Lady Harriet, Sherlock, they would certainly still be asleep. He enjoyed this time, when it felt like he had the entire earth all to himself. Knowing everyone was fast asleep and he could roam freely was a feeling he always savoured. There were two parts of the day he enjoyed more then any other, the moments when everyone had gone to bed, and the moments before everyone woke up. They were his times. He could do whatever he wished. There was a specific kind of ecstasy when he knew he would not be disturbed and he felt it keenly. 

He walked along a few more steps until the barn was fully in sight. He could see the detail in the wooden beams rather then a blotch of brown in the landscape. He whistled a little louder so Joseph could hear him. He knew the auburn haired boy would already be waiting for him, as he had done each morning all week. 

He had known Joseph long enough now to consider him a friend, but since he had only come bursting into John's life a few week previous, he still felt new. He remembered the first time he saw Joseph, with his crooked smile and bright green eyes. John had been walking alone in the countryside surrounding his home. He saw a young boy stealing apples from Mr Grey's yard and John was utterly captivated. 

Since then he had seen the boy running around quite a lot, as if he was orbiting him. He was a stable boy yet seemed to spend most of him time wild and free. When the days work was done he would find John and they would play together. 

The barn was quite dilapidated, there to keep the ponies and less grander mares. There was a much larger barn only a few yards away that was barely two years old and built to keep the best of Lord Holmes's horses. John had never stepped foot in that barn. He opened the door with force as it was rather stiff. 

'Hello' He called out to a figure shovelling hay. He hoped it was Joseph, it was the same size. If it was not he prepared to run. He was not allowed here by himself, he had to come when he knew only Joseph would be there. He would get a good clip round the ear if anyone found him here. It was a stable yard, not a playground as he was constantly reminded. 

'John!' The figure squealed at him. Joseph threw down the shovel into the corner and bounded over with his usual enthusiasm. 

'Good morning, Joseph' John replied politely. Scanning his eyes over the freckles the young boy had on his otherwise pale cheek. 

Joseph laughed. 'Joe. Not Joseph. Lord John' he teased. He always called John that, a mocking tone that John did not like but let carry on for fear that if he upset Joseph he would not be allowed back. 

He had tried to explain to the other boy that he was certainly not 'Lord John', but he took no notice and continued with the joke, much to John's quiet disdain. As for 'Joe', no, it was Joseph, he couldn't call the young boy Joe. He seemed to have a complete inability to call Joseph anything other then his given name. Nicknames were impossible, they improper and just wrong. It had been forced out of him long ago along with so many other traits he had brought with him. He hadn't called his sister Harry for years in a attempt to fit in with his surroundings. Maybe he was Lord John after all. 

Joseph chuckled and gave John a wry grin. He looked over the dirty stable boy, buttons missing from his shirt, a flat cap placed at a jaunty angle upon his head. From the first day they had met he had felt a strange affinity with the lad. It was as if he was watching his true self, he had often wondered if he would have ended up exactly like Joseph if things had taken another course. Thin and scrawny with dirt under his fingernails. He was unsure why Joseph seemed to like him so much, or seemed to revel in the company he provided. Maybe he enjoyed the novelty of seeing John walk around in hay?

Despite being unsure if Joseph like him or not, John couldn't help but feel happy in his presence. He liked the other boy. He was fun, wicked and naughty yes, but incredibly fun. For the first time in his life John felt he had a friendship that was a true partnership. He never felt below Joseph, that the other boy was more important or special. For once he could just be John, his birth and surname didn't matter a jot. 

Their friendship felt completely natural rather then an accident or improper. Joseph and him existed in the same state, both low born, both the same. It was the reason he almost clung to Joseph, it didn't seem to matter if he was sometimes made fun of. He liked Joseph, he could relax around him. Joseph never made his heart beat or swell in the way Sherlock did but in a lot of ways that was actually quite soothing. He didn't have to worry about what he did or said, Joseph never made him feel dizzy or out of breath. What bound him to Sherlock terrified him. The unexplainable presence of something that he just did not understand. With Joseph he could breathe, it didn't feel that something was about to explode in his chest. With the stable boy it was simple, his head didn't hurt with it all, it was easy. 

He briefly wondered if Sherlock was up yet, though he was probably too busy with his test tubes to come play. He wanted so badly to drag Sherlock out and climb trees or bathe like they used to but Sherlock spent most of his time indoors now, reading books or experimenting with goodness knows what. 

He felt guilty that in many ways he was using Joseph as a substitute, and given the choice he would always wish Sherlock was with him, even if the spark was terrifying and that he felt his being was in another, he still savoured it as something incredibly special. Joseph was a good friend, Sherlock was an enigma but he made him feel something indescribable, that John could not fathom even if he thought about it for a million years. 

'Can I see them?' John asked, not wanting to delay any longer. He hadn't come all the way to barns simply to chat to the other boy. 

'Over there, she moved them in the night to a warmer spot. I gave her some milk this morning, but don't tell Patty' 

John grinned and carefully walked over to where Joseph had pointed. Making sure not to make too much noise for fear of frightening them. 

He saw the, familiar large black blob first. As soon as he made a rustling sound on the hay the head looked up and two green eyes stared at him. It meowed at him then yawned.

'Hello' John greeted the cat. He smiled and walked slowly towards her. 

The smaller blobs began to mew softly and were quickly licked by their mother. Too small to even have their eyes opened completely. They made small sounds and fumbled around the space, completely blind to the world around them. John was mesmerised by the delicate kittens. Four balls of fur, three completely black like its mother, one black yet with specks of white around the paws and face, John's favourite. 

He had built up the cats trust enough to stroke her children, they were big enough to not be quite so reliant on her as they were when they were born. Exploring blindly into their corner of the barn. 

John was unsure where exactly the cat had come from. A stray perhaps who had come into the barn to find shelter and a warm place to give birth. Joseph had shown him the litter when they were a few hours old, making him swear to secrecy. He had stolen food for her from the kitchens, though she could probably find enough mice in the barn to sustain them, keeping her existence secret from anyone. Even Sherlock. He has never had a secret from Sherlock before. He didn't like it at all. He wished so badly to show Sherlock the kittens, but he had promised Joseph. 

John's favourite nuzzled his hand. Looking up at him blindly. John felt a sudden protective urge, at having something need him. It opened it's eyes and mewed quietly, a sound John could barely hear but one that made John feel quite all right with the world. He liked feeling needed, that this tiny little thing relied on him for something. 

He had to tear himself away before his presence would be missed. He doubted anyone would really notice his absence apart from Patty, but if he missed breakfast she would give him a stern clip round the ear.

Walking back to the house he thought of the cat and her kittens. He felt envious of the balls of fur for having their mother there to comfort them. He felt rather special that Joseph trusted him enough to share such a thing, but still felt a pain that Sherlock was excluded. 

'Happy Birthday' Patty squealed at him, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly., causing his face to be squashed in her ample chest.

'God, ten years old eh?' she laughed, 'my you are getting so big now.' John blushed as Patty made him stand against the wall. She marked his height with a pencil and scribbled 'John Watson aged 10' on the wall. John was pleased to see how high it was compared to his other ages. Not as high as Sherlock, but at least he was not shrinking. 

He could not believe it had been five years since he came here. It had gone by so quickly, yet it felt like an entire eternity had passed since he had arrived as a scruffy orphan boy from London. 

He had his usual bowl of porridge before walking upstairs and deciding it was time to find Sherlock. He could never be away from Sherlock for very long. Sometimes he liked watching Sherlock do those crazy experiments, watching his quick fingers fly around. He would read a book while Sherlock did whatever it was he did, that seemed a rather pleasant way to pass the time. 

As he strode towards to the staircase he saw Miss Collins was standing in the hall with a youngish man, he couldn't have been much older then Mycroft who was now away at school. The man had grown a thinnish moustache that curled around his top lip, but there was no mistaking the rosy tint of youth that befell him.

'This is John Watson.' Miss Collins, as lovely as ever, introduced him to the man with a sweet smile. 

'John this is Henry Ellis, just graduated from Oxford. He is to be your new tutor. Comes with the most glowing recommendations.'

The stranger laughed, his blonde locks falling into his eye, he swept them away immediately. He was young and very handsome. John could see the blush that came across her cheek as he stared at him. Battering her eyelashes softly. 

John smiled back shyly wondering how long this one would last. He was now quite used to men coming and going. There seemed to be an endless supply of men willing to take the job as their tutor. He was unsure how Lord Holmes found them, but he knew the pay must have been excellent to attract so many men. Sadly even the promise of money could not keep them. The last one, an oafish retired Professor by the name of Smith, had spent two weeks in the company of Sherlock before branding him unteachable and a complete savage and leaving the house in a storm. That was quick, even by Sherlock's standards. The one before that, Jefferson, terrible squint and a busy beard, was a better effort at two months. Mr Allington lasted a whole year, though that was may moons ago. John missed Mr Allington.

'Well, hello John.' he smiled at him, though not quite as sickly a smile as he gave Miss Collins. 'Tell me, who won the battle of Agincourt?' 

'Henry V in the year 1415, he fought the French as part of the hundred years war. ' John replied confidently 'Though I suppose you could argue the longbow men should really take ownership of that victory.'

He laughed 'Well, I see you are a very bright boy.'

Miss Collins nodded enthusiastically 'John is incredibly clever. Aren't you John?' John blushed but did not reply. 'Now, if you will come with me I will show you the library, that is where Sherlock and John have their lessons. Did Lord Holmes tell you about Sherlock?' 

'Yes he did, don't worry I am sure I can whip that boy into shape.' he laughed again. John felt quite sorry for him. They were always so confident and hopeful at the start. It didn't take long for Sherlock to wear them down into sobbing messes. 

Suddenly there was a terrible noise coming from one of the day rooms, it sounded like a heard of elephants being slowly tortured to death. It was so loud and horrid it made John screw up his face and cover his ears. The loud, thunderous noise filled the air and made it sound like the sky was falling in.

'Good grief what an earth is that?' Ellis asked.

Miss Collins sighed. 'Lady Harriet, she is having a piano lesson.'

John decided that was his queue to exit and ran up the stairs away from the awful racket. Harriet had been having many piano lessons and was actually getting worse. She didn't so much play the instrument as murder it. 

He found Sherlock where he often found him these days, hunched over his desk and staring at the contents of test tubes. The cows heart he had been carefully dissecting was perched precariously on the edge, right next to his elbow, not that it would really matter if it fell, there were so many stains on the floor you could barely make out any carpet. It just looked like a patchwork quilt of various different colours, and parts of it had been burnt off all together. 

'Morning John' Sherlock said without looking up from his experiments. He stared into a test tube containing a colourful solution of something John knew he could never name. It fizzled about in its glass cage, climbing up towards the cork stopper. 

'Happy found day.' Sherlock remarked, still not looking up but John could see the smile on his face.

He blushed. Sherlock never said 'Happy Birthday' as John had completely forgotten what date his birthday was, so instead they celebrated his 'found day' and that was the date Lord Holmes had found them in that grubby street in London. The celebrations for Harriet were already well under-way and had been planned carefully for weeks, John didn't care as he was quite used to it by now. As long as Patty and Sherlock remembered he didn't give two hoots if Harriet was given the most attention. Usually Sherlock would forget such trivial matters, so John found his heart skipping a beat that he had not forgotten. 

He always felt strangely queer at this time. Birthdays were usually a cause for celebration but for John they were a time of deep thought. Five years he had been at Sherringford. He looked back at the boy who lived in London and he felt like a total stranger. What would his mother say if she could see him now? Would his mother even recognise him if she could him now? Would she see her son beneath the nice clothes and the tutors?

Sherlock had grown to look even more like Lord Holmes then he once did. Sometimes he would gaze at the portrait that hung in the corridor, but John could not see any of Vera Holmes in her son. Sherlock grew gangly and angular, the last of his puppy fat had left him, now his cheeks were not rosy and full but sharp like a knife. His hair and eyes still wild, but now they focused on test tubes and microscopes rather then John and the gardens. 

He briefly thought of his father, did he ever give his children and wife some thought? Did he know his wife was dead and his daughter went by a different name? He would never be his father he thought sternly to himself. He would never leave his family to rot in the gutter. He knew his father was alive, how he did not know, there was just a feeling in his gut that somewhere he was out there. He knew it was wrong but sometimes he would dream of his father swinging from the gallows or lying dead in the gutter. His mother would still be alive if it wasn't for his father so he couldn't help but let his imagination take revenge.

It was with great regret that John realised he could no longer remember what his mother looked like. He had no pictures, no portraits hanging in great halls of grand country houses. Just the distant memory of sandy blonde hair and faint blue eyes. He knew if he saw his mother in a crowd he would not know who she was, that knowledge made his heart break. 

Harriet never mentioned their mother, if John even mentioned their past beyond the walls of Sherringford Hall it would earn him a pinch and a slap. John was left to morn their mother completely alone. He wanted to talk about his mother with Harriet, to keep her alive somehow but his sister seemed so determined to erase their past completely.

He leaned back on Sherlock's bed, closing his eyes as he felt the other boy climb onto him, then cuddle into his side. They cuddled often, when they were in bed falling asleep, just like they did when they were young. John still felt a thrill whenever he felt Sherlock so close. 

'One day we will go to London and we will find where your mother is buried.' Sherlock whispered into his ear with all the hope only a ten year old boy could ever posses. 

John sighed. 'a paupers grave, Sherlock we would never find it.' He said with a sense of finality. He wondered how Sherlock always seemed to know exactly what it was he was thinking. 

'Patty made you a cake for your found day, it has raisins in it. Don't tell her I told you.'

John smiled, he adored Patty, she was the closest thing to a family John had. 

'John?'

'Yes'

'Can I kiss you?'

'Yes.'

Sherlock's lips were smooth and soft. He tasted of peppermint and something that was uniquely Sherlock, that same woody smell he had carried round with him since he was a small boy. It was a chaste kiss, it was comforting and warm. Something that reminded his of much younger, carefree days. 

They still kissed often. When they were alone and no one was there to disturb them. John would always feel his heart pound at the contact. 

He wanted to kiss Sherlock like this forever and always. He wanted to have Sherlock cuddle him and never let go. He didn't do this with Joseph, maybe that was why their friendship was so different. 

'We have a new tutor, Ellis' John informed Sherlock, breaking away from his sweet mouth.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, then sighed. 

'Do you like him?'

John shrugged. 'I think so, he seems nice.'

'I will try to be good this time.'

John laughed. He appreciated Sherlock attempting to make an effort, but he was unsure if Sherlock could be anything else but Sherlock. 

Patty's cake was delicious. She even let them have it in the lawn as it was a bright sunny day. Johns at in one of the white chairs by Miss Collins, swinging his legs and letting the taste of the fruit in the cake explode in his mouth. Sherlock was out of ear shot, standing by a mound of soil with his magnifying glass. Miss Collins ate he cake delicately, her little fingers taking it apart into small pieces which she then popped into her mouth with grace. John just grabbed handfuls and shoved it in, he could never resist cake.

'I have a present for you, John' She smiled her pretty smile at him. Pulling out a brown paper package that was tied together with white string. John opened it greedily and unwrapped a large leather backed book.

'Its a book on anatomy' Miss Collins told him' 'You are going to make a wonderful doctor one day' 

John beamed, a book all for him? It was quite magical. Miss Collins was the only one who knew he wanted to be a doctor. He had told her after she had found his asleep in the library covered in books on biology. 

He looked at the governess, taking in her features and noticed the frown which kept coming across her face. She kept trying to hide it. Smiling delicately yet there was a quizzical and sorrowful look on her face. She could not mask that, not from him. 

'You are sad, what is wrong?' John was confused, had he upset her?

Miss Collins paused for a moment, looking over at Sherlock who was still looking through the magnifying glass. 

'Can you keep a secret, John?'

John nodded, of course he could. 

'Lord Holmes has asked me to marry him.'

John was quite shocked. He couldn't imagine Lord Holmes asking anyone to marry him, he was just so cold. Lord Holmes could not be her husband, she was lovely and wonderful, she should be with someone who would make her laugh and tell her how pretty she was. Lord Holmes would make her miserable, he made everyone miserable. 

'And will you marry him?' 

Miss Collins nodded. John looked over at Sherlock, did he know he was about to get a new stepmother? No, of course not for he would have told John immediately. 

'Do you love him?' he asked. 

Miss Collins shook her head. 'Love has nothing to do with marriage, John. You should know that by now. He can give me a place in society, wealth, I will be taken care of for the rest of my days.' 

John was suddenly quite angry. Why did any of that matter? If you marry someone is should be for love. 'Why?'

'A man like him needs a wife.' Miss Collins sniffed. 

'No, I mean why are you? He will make you sad, you know it.'

Miss Collins laughed, not a mocking laugh but one of despair. A laugh that someone gives you on their way to an execution when you ask why you can't just run away. 

'Oh John, love does not keep you warm at night, it does not fill your belly with food or fill your purse or give you status. I would be a fool to say no.'

John quietly seethed. Miss Collins was one of John's most treasured people in the whole world. He could not bare to think of her being married to someone John feared so much.

'He is a good man, underneath it all. I think I can bring that out of him.'

John did not know what Miss Collins meant by this, Lord Holmes was not a good man, he was not kind or warm. He was so harsh and cruel. John did not want her to be so full of woe. 

'I will marry for love.' John said defiantly. 

Miss Collins nodded, 'Yes, you will.'

John looked at his friend over the grass and smiled. 'I will marry Sherlock' he squealed delightedly. Yes, Sherlock. Sherlock was good, Sherlock was warm and Sherlock never made him sad. He would marry him.

Miss Collins laughed. 'You can't marry Sherlock, he is a boy.'

John shrugged. 'That does not matter, it does not matter at all.'


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May. 1896 and two orphans, Harriet and John Watson, slowly starve to death on the streets of London. A series of events lead them to be taken in by the mysterious Lord Holmes. As they grow John learns he has to fight in a world obsessed with birth while at the same time an obsessive love threatens to tear him apart.

Always A Watson  
Chapter Five

July 1907

'Have you heard?'

Two maids were chatting over a pile of washing. They were young, he had only seen the a few times before since they were part of a new crop that had come from the town, but they were sweet and amiable and John like them. It happened often, maids would grow, become engaged get married and new ones would take their place. There seemed a constant group of young women ready for service. His heart gave a brief throb at the memories of Polly and Annie. 

John's ears twitched at the hushed words that filled the corner. John was quite used to the maids gossiping about all sorts and usually it was of no interest to him at all. Who was in love with who, who was angry, who had reasons to be cheerful, who disliked their treatment and other such trifles. 

'If this is about the Ashby's I don't want to know. I am sick and tired of hearing about Lord Ashby this and Lord Ashby that, completely sick'

Ashby was and old friend of Lord Holmes who had spent the past decade in India with his wife and son. That was all John had found out from Sherlock who seemed so utterly bored by any mention of the name. They were to come to Sherringford in a matter of days and the whole house was buzzing with excitement over the prospective visitors. John had never seen Patty quite so stressed, she was insisting on making enough food to feed an entire army. Patty was a fantastic cook and John knew the Ashby's would be very impressed with her creations. If she didn't die of overwork before they had a chance to taste anything. 

'Oh no, nothing like that. Do you know the post master? Mr Appleby? Was arrested this morning apparently.'

A sharp pang in his stomach and suddenly his insides were in knots. Mr Appleby owned the local post office in the village, John had spent many an hour there with Sherlock picking out toffees and sweets. He always gave them extra, he always smiled at them and called them his best customers. He helped fix John's bicycle when it had broken and didn't mind getting oil all over his hands. The small, wire framed glasses were permanent fixture on his face as was his toothy grin. He was such a kind man, a gentle man, he was not a criminal. What an earth could he have done to warrant such a fate? Would he be hanged? Oh no please not. John felt quite sick at the idea of a man he considered a good friend rotting at the end of a rope.

'Really? What for? He was always so good to me, bought some stamps from him only last week and didn't mind I was a tuppence short, said to pay him back the next time and that was that'

'Apparently he is one of those' the maid replied to her friend sternly, as if any mention of the man was making her skin crawl. 'He tried to kiss Mrs Derby's son and they arrested him for gross indecency or sodomy or something like that.'

What? Mr Appleby tried to kiss a man? A haze of confusion descended upon him. John could not make sense of it, did they kiss like he used to kiss Sherlock when they were children? Why exactly was that wrong? Maybe Mr Appleby just wanted to comfort the man? 

'Really?'  
'Yeah, homosexuality they called it, something about men falling in love with each other.'

'How absurd. Something is obviously not right in his head if he thinks in such a way.'

'Well, I was talking to Lottie and she said its something to do with the mind. Said they will cart Mr Appleby off to the loony bin, much kinder then jail but Lottie has always been soft.'

John had never realised that men could love each other like a man and a women did. He had never heard the term homosexual or sodomy. He didn't know why it was wrong, he did not really know what it was. 

John left his breakfast and went looking for Sherlock. He needed the other boys presence right now. He needed to tell him what had happened. Sherlock liked Mr Appleby too. Sherlock would know he was innocent of any wrong doing. 

'Hello, John'

The great hall was filled with the July sun that was just starting to peep out over the clouds. As he entered he was immediately greeted by the sight of a young man holding a large bouquet of flowers. 

'Oh, hello Rupert.' 

He had seen Rupert many times before, with his dark hair and intense expression. Cap firmly in hand he smiled awkwardly at John. The flowers were a mixture of white, blue and purple petals with long, green stems. John thought them quite beautiful. 

'Is Lady Harriet here?'

'No. She is at the village hall, something about a conservative rally. I think they are trying regain support after that terrible election they had.'

'I've been trying to run into her for days. I fear she is avoiding me' he frowned 'Well, can you give her these?' 

John nodded awkwardly and took the flowers, trying not to show the pity he had for Rupert on his face. 

'I asked her to marry me, do you think she will say yes?' Rupert asked, looking completely dejected. 

'I am sure she will give you her answer soon.' 

He felt so sorry for Rupert. Harriet certainly had her fair share of admirers. Many men in the village were after her, imagining her as their wife. Daughter of a lord, she was a fine catch. Rupert did not reply, instead he walked out the door and down the road, walking back towards the town with his shoulders slouched and his hands shoved into his pockets. 

'Oh, what pretty flowers.' A maid squealed behind him.

'Take them, please. They will be thrown away otherwise' 

John hoped the flowers would liven up the drab servants quarters. It was a popular spot for Sherlock and himself to play in while they were children and John had always thought them rather bleak.

'Has he gone?' Harriet appeared in the hallway carrying a brown package. Her hair in ringlets, styled to perfection above her dress. She wrinkled up her nose in disgust as she stared at the doorway Rupert had left from. 

'I told him you were away.'

'Thank goodness, he keeps following me around like an utter sheep! I can't lose him. You know Clara dared me to kiss him? I did, he had a bag of those chocolates I like and I said I would give him a kiss for them, now he seems to think we are to be wed!'

John tried to hide his displeasure. Harriet was so beastly at times. The poor man had done no wrong but fall for such a viper. 

'Rupert asked you to marry him, are you going to accept his proposal?'

Harriet laughed 'Oh no Rupert is an utter oaf! Do you have any idea how little he earns? And he wants to live in that ramshackle shack he lives in with that ghastly mother of his, what's more he is a liberal. As is I would marry him! The Ashby's will be coming in a matter of days. I think father his planning on me marrying Lord Ashby's son, Stephen. He is far more worthy of me.'

To emphasise her point she clicked her heels and stormed off down the hall into the drawing room. For a few moments John considered the thought that Rupert had had quite a lucky escape, but he did not voice this thought out loud. 

He found Sherlock in his room, scribbling out a letter at a furious speed on the old writing desk. A newspaper scattered across, a bottle of ink rested by his arm and his hand was covered in dark black ink. Sherlock could never write very well when he was excited.

John sat on the edge of the bed and took the opportunity to study him. They were men now, Sherlock had shot up a few summers previous and it seemed like he never stopped. He was so tall now that John wondered if he continued to grow at such a rate he would soon touch the sky. John had not had such luck, he was self conscious over his smaller frame and knew he would grown no taller. However unlike Sherlock his body had decided to grow outwards, he was not rotund by any stretch of the imagination, but he was solid and compact. Sherlock was whippet thin, every ounce of fat from boyhood had left him. His cheeks were now the sharpest John had ever seen, he was gangly, often moving in an awkward lurch as he was so used to being much smaller. Their voices had deepened, Sherlock's to an unimaginably low and smooth register. As dark and exotic as the shag tobacco Jenkins smoked. 

One thing John did hold over Sherlock was he had started to grow facial hair. He had seen Sherlock's reflection through the looking glass when he shaved every morning, his expression a mixture of awe and envy. Sherlock's face was still like a child's. 

He liked to admire Sherlock's beauty. The way his eyes flickered over the paper, still that curious shade and still so alive. His long fingers holding the pen, teeth biting on the red lip as he wrote. 

'You are not writing to Scotland Yard again, are you?' John laughed. Sherlock had become utterly obsessed with crime. Every day he was scouring the papers, hoping for some salacious report of murder or intrigue. He was convinced he could solve them. John did not know why the police would listen to a sixteen year old boy but this did not deter his friend.

'Mr Parsons was murdered, I know it. They need to listen to me'

Sherlock turned, finally glancing in Johns direction and scouring his eyes over him. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up in the way it always did when he was at the centre of Sherlock's attentions. 

'You mended your shirt again, its been washed but it's far too starchy and stiff for you. You would ask for them to press it differently but you feel you can't complain, you do not wish to bother anyone. Rupert has been to see Harriet yet you sent him away, some trifle nonsense or other about her being out, you feel for him and you don't want to upset him so you lied about her whereabouts'

John could do nothing but grin as he was quite used to this by now. Sherlock called it deduction, John thought he was just plucking things out of thin air, well, he would do if Sherlock was ever wrong. He was right of course, he was always right.

'Go on, tell me how you did it this time.'

'Black stitching around the cuff but your shirt is white, therefore you used some spare black thread to mend it. The skin around your collar is red. The shirt has been rubbing meaning too much starch. I often see you with marks like this so I know it's something you suffer from repeatedly. I also know you and you will rarely cause a fuss so its something you choose to live with.'

'And Rupert?'

'Simple. As you know my room faces out onto the main entrance. I saw Rupert approach with a large bunch of flowers, obviously intended for Harriet. Now here you are with a loose petal on your trouser leg, not a difficult leap.'

'How did you know I lied?'

'A tad more difficult. I know you like Rupert, you didn't want him to go through the pain of having her refuse him. So you lied.'

'He loves her. How can she treat him like this?' John frowned. Rupert was a good man, he hated seeing him spurned like this, especially by his own sister.

'Love does not exist, it is just used as a distraction. I have no idea why people feel the need to fill their heads with such fanciful rubbish. He will soon find someone else and Harriet will be a distant memory' 

John was troubled by this. Sherlock often described his body as purely for transport. He rarely ate, rarely slept as he said it slowed down his mind, yet he had never said love was something he ignored to. 

'Mr Appleby was arrested.' John blurted out, unable to keep it in any longer. 

'Yes, I heard.' Sherlock said rather dismissively, turning back to his letter and dipping the pen into the ink.

'You mean it is possible for two men to love each other in such a way?'

Sherlock shook his head 'Its a sin apparently, he who lies with another man shall be dammed for all eternity. Homosexuality is against the law John, I thought you knew that?' 

John found himself unable to reply. Instead he sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, lost in his thoughts as Sherlock wrote. He felt rather embarrassed for not knowing there was such a thing. It was all rather ridiculous, men did not love men as they did women, yet he could find himself sicked by such a law. He did not know why he was so bothered by it, it was against the law after all so therefore it must be wrong, but he felt that poor Mr Appleby and been dealt and injustice. Still, he doubted he would ever have to worry about such things, luckily for him Patty was constantly talking about him meeting a nice young girl and getting married. John could not think of any other reason why this would not happen, after all its what people did. He would meet someone called Emily or Rose or Mary and he would be quite happy. 

Years ago he once told Lady Holmes, or Miss Collins as she was known back then, that one day he would marry Sherlock. It was a silly childhood memory, he had never told Sherlock he had made such a decision and yet it was such a warm memory he would never forget it. It made him wonder what type of girl Sherlock would marry, he didn't think that was possible, no one would be able to stick him. 

He thought once again of Rupert. They were the same age and yet John had never bought a girl flowers. He had never found a girl attractive, pretty yes, beautiful certainly, but never in a way that made him want to kiss them or hold their hand. Joseph had once told him about this thing called sex people have, apparently it was quite enjoyable but it made John feel queasy. The thought of seeing a girl naked, any girl, touching her and putting his penis inside her was repellent. 

'Ellis has the day off, we don't have to have one of his awful lessons.' Sherlock said, interrupting his chain of thought. 

'Yes, its going to be such a nice day. Far too nice to be cooped up indoors.'

'Care to help me? I want to conduct an experiment.'

'All right then, what do you wish me to do?'

It sounded like a great idea, whenever he felt like he could not make sense of anything he had to leave the house, get out under a wide open sky and feel the fresh air. It made everything so much better and he could always think far more clearly on his return. He wanted to get what happened to Mr Appleby out of his head. All he wanted to do was to relax, breathe and not find himself so troubled over such worrisome thoughts. 

'I want to re-enact a murder, care to be my victim?

This is how John found himself, a few hours later and covered in mud. They had had the most wonderful time. The murder seemed to consist of John casually walking through a clearing of woodland, only to be shot through the heart by a strange man and his body dragged off into the undergrowth. Sherlock kept using words like motive and trajectory, but John could not make head nor tail of what the hell was happening. Still, he he had not laughed quite so hard for days. 

'John, please do not giggle, this is a crime scene!' Sherlock has reprimanded him yet was smiling to, in a way that lit up his entire face with a sort of glowing amusement. 

'goodness gracious what the hell happened to you' Patty exclaimed when they arrived back to Sherringford. 

'I was a dead body, Sherlock shot me then I had to lie very still. He pretended to be a murderer' John tried to explain as Patty scrubbed away at his cheek with a wet cloth. She barked at some maids to get the tin bath ready, but John was too busy laughing at the twigs caught in Sherlock's hair. 

'I thought you two were far too old for games.' Patty tutted.

'It was not a game! I have proven my hypothesis that the culprit shot the wrong man. It's the only possible explanation. I must write to Scotland Yard at once.' Sherlock insisted.

'Not before you have a wash you don't. You better not play in the woods while the Ashbys are here.' 

'It was a serious experiment, we were not playing' Sherlock replied haughtily. 

The tin bath was in the back room behind the kitchen. They were far too old to need supervision so once it was ready and soap and towels were found Sherlock and John were left in peace to wash themselves and look presentable for dinner. 

'You were most helpful John, I say if the police do not listen to me this time they are even bigger idiots then I first thought.' 

John's mouth went completely and utterly dry as Sherlock removed his jacket and waistcoat. 

'What are you waiting for?' Sherlock mocked lightly, nodding at John's fully dressed body. 

'Yes, of course' John replied, nearly jumping out of his skin. He tugged at the buttons but found he was quite unable to think clearly. All he could do was stare as his friend removed his clothes. 

Sherlock was still as pale as ever, rake thin and towering above him. He seemed completely oblivious to John's distress, humming to himself as he removed layer after layer until he stood completely bare. 

Something new and incredibly frightening came across John as he looked at Sherlock's naked form. He was utterly perfect in a way John could never have imagined. He looked like he had been carved out of moonlight. There was the same patch of dark, course, black hair around his genitals but his manhood was quite different. Longer and thinner with a pale shaft and reddish tip. John tried to hide his stares. He felt dizzy and sick and for the first time in his life he wanted to put space between them. He had seen Sherlock naked so many times as a boy but this felt so different. Sherlock had never caused such a reaction in him before, the shortness of breath, the feeling he was going to faint at any second. Sherlock had always been just Sherlock. 

Sherlock turned so his back was facing John, walking across the hard tiles of the floor. As he climbed into the bath a few drops of water splashed quite nosily onto the floor, ignored by the young man who settled him self into the tub.

John pretended to be engrossed in undressing, really he was watching, transfixed with the sight in front of him. Every freckle, every mark on Sherlock's back, his backside, John wanted so desperately to reach out and touch it. They had shared baths before as young boys, but they were carelessly fun affairs, this felt that it would be the death of him, a giant weight was suddenly wrapping itself around his chest.

He stumbled forward, trying to mask his thoughts, worried that Sherlock would suddenly develop an ability to read his mind and be utterly revolted. What if Sherlock realised John wanted nothing more then to run his finger d own his chest and thighs? The thought didn't bear thinking about, he would lose everything. 

When Joseph described the things one did during sex, John now realised he wanted to do them to Sherlock if only he had the right anatomy. If Sherlock was a girl he would bring him flowers and ask for his hand in marriage. He wanted to take Sherlock and kiss him. 

Though this was a strange realisation John felt no surprise at learning the true nature of his feelings. It had always been there, this yearning for Sherlock, this need to be close and to touch. It was as if someone had turned on a light inside his mind and everything was now illuminated. However the news of Mr Appleby caused a long, dark shadow on his thoughts. 

The water was cold, which was a welcome relief considering the hot prickles running along his skin. It was cramped, barely enough room for two which made the situation far worse then John could ever imagine. Sherlock's naked form taunted him, the water wrapping itself around him, the soap he was using to wash himself with. Oh god it was going to make John explode any moment. The tin hard against his back. He pulled his legs up to his chest, trying to keep as much space between him and his desire. 

'Are you all right? You looked rather flushed.'

'I am quite fine.' John lied. 

Sherlock was beautiful, John had known that all his life and yet it felt as if he was looking at him for the very first time. Oh god what was happening to him? 

The sudden thought of the arrest of Mr Appleby came into his mind. If he kissed Sherlock he would also succumb to the same fate. Is that what was to become of him? John felt his whole world turn upside down, pulled into a new and terrifying direction. 

Sherlock would never look at John like this, he thought a body was simply a house for the mind and everything else was a distraction. Imagine if John suddenly asked to kiss him? He would be disgusted, he would telegram the police and they would arrest him just like Mr Appleby. It was a sin, such a terrible sin that John was committing, to sit naked in a bath with another man and to enjoy it!

He barely slept a wink that night, his dreams full of visions of jail, of judges sentencing him to be hung, of Sherlock sneering at him from the gallows. His mind conjuring up prisons full of rats and lice. He was worse then the thieves and murderers they housed, he was the very, very worse. Then lastly a dream of a woman with sandy blonde hair and pale blue eyes staring down at him from heaven, tears in her eyes.

'Forgive me mother. Please forgive me.'


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May. 1896 and two orphans, Harriet and John Watson, slowly starve to death on the streets of London. A series of events lead them to be taken in by the mysterious Lord Holmes. As they grow John learns he has to fight in a world obsessed with birth while at the same time an obsessive love threatens to tear him apart.

Chapter Six

John did not even dare to breathe, keeping his respirations as quiet and as steady as he could so as not to disturb the sight before him, drawing in even the slightest bit of the warm air would spell doom, he felt his chest constrict and become rather desperate but he did not allow himself to gasp for breath. He sat very still and tried not to move. Trying to make no movement whatsoever, making himself like a statue and as quiet as the grave. Even a delicate scratch of the nose could end it all. 

The small rabbit could not have been very old, a tiny little thing, small and slight, golden brown with a white splodge of colour across its nose. It was resting in a patch of daisies, splayed out in-between the trees in which John rested against, taking in the sunshine and with the look of a lord surveying its surroundings. John was rather enchanted by it, it was hard not to be as its eyes were so large and inviting. He liked looking at animals, he enjoyed sitting in the sunshine and watching them scurry about, especially the young ones where there was a certain air of innocence about them. It was like entering a secret world that nature kept hidden from man. 

He wanted to carry on looking at the thing, in fact he probably would have stayed there till the sun set in the sky, yet he heard a murmur of conversation in the distance, a few twigs were snapped under the weight of someone's foot and as soon as the sound pierced through the air the rabbit bolted into the undergrowth completely out of sight. 

John glanced at the direction the sound had come from and saw two figures approaching his spot in the grass. Lady Holmes looked so utterly enchanting in a wide brimmed hat and lace gloves, her hair dangling down by her shoulders which swayed lightly in the delicate breeze. The smile she had on her face seemed as bright as the sky, his tutor walking beside her deep in conversation, every so often he would whisper something into her ear and she would bust out into a loud laughter. The sun lighting up his auburn hair as he looked at her with a deep fondness. She grabbed his hand and pulled in forward, responding to his words with a bright smile and wide eyes. 

The pair seemed to have become rather inseparable of late, which John was secretly rather happy about. Ever since she had stopped being Harriet's governess and married she had become rather dour. A black cloud of gloom and seriousness seemed to constantly follow her around. Her features constantly overshadowed by a dark seriousness that betrayed her unhappiness. John rarely saw her laugh now, only when she was with Ellis. She grabbed his hand and pulled him along, laughing at his words which were just out of earshot, turning around to smile at him and adjust her hat. 

'Hullo' John cried when they approached. Ellis, as ever, looked happy to see him. While Sherlock was the more intelligent of the pair, far more then John could ever hope to be, he was also rude and brash. Not in an arrogant or egotistical way, he had know him long enough to know that Sherlock was simply a lost boy, utterly confused by the world around him, he did not understand social conventions or even people for that matter. John would never say it aloud, but he thought that Sherlock used his vast intellect and quick thinking as a shield, to protect himself from a world in which he did not feel quite part of. Sometimes it made John feel quite angry, he understood the way in which the house ran far better then Sherlock ever could, yet it was something closed off to him, he was far too in love with the man to ever let it show. Out of the two of them Ellis held him in much higher regard, he was certainly the favourite with his tutor. 

'Wonderful day isn't it, John?' the man laughed again. He seemed so easy going, as if the world was a constant party. He very rarely seemed to let anything dwell in his mind, constantly smiling and joking, just like Lady Holmes had been so long ago. Perhaps that is why she liked him so much? He brought out of her a gaiety she had lost. 

If John had expected a warm reception from Lady Holmes, or for her cheeriness to be transferred to him, he was sorely disappointed. As soon as she had seen him the smile faded from her face, replaced with a look of embarrassment and worry, she immediately snatched her hand out of the man's grasp, looking in all directions as if she was being spied upon. She glanced at the trees as if they themselves had eyes in their trunks and branches. He saw the anguish in her features, her eyes set in apprehension. 

'You better head back to the house, the Ashby's will be arriving any moment' she told him rather snappily. 

'I will find Sherlock.' He had left his friend by one of the trees, deeply engrossed in a book as he went for a walk. He had become restless and rather bored, feeling an anxiousness in his limbs that just made him want to move. He wondered if Sherlock had even noticed his absence, disappearing in his own mind and noticing nothing but what he was so intently focusing on, a cave where John could never hope to enter. The world could end but if Sherlock Holmes was reading a book it would go by completely unnoticed. Whenever he thought of Sherlock's mind he could not think of anything but something in complete chaos. 

'Yes, you better.' she replied, running up ahead 

John felt rather stung by her quick refusal of him. She was always so utterly welcoming and kind to him this seemed to give him nothing but hurt. He looked at the two figures running away from him. Ellis trying to place his hand on the small of her back yet her quickly batting his hand away. He could tell by the furrowing in her brows and her quick words that they were quarrelling. The scene seemed so at odds with the happiness he had gazed at mere minutes ago. 

He found Sherlock exactly as he left him, he had barely started the text, a thick, leather back volume on the criminal mind, when John had left but now he was on the last few pages. John was always rather startled at the rate in which Sherlock read, he didn't so much read as utterly devour the words. Taking them in with a focus and intensity that was unrivalled by anything John had ever seen. 

'How was your walk?' he asked without looking up. John smiled, he knew very well Sherlock had no interest in how his walk was, he also did not have the social curtsey to ask about something that had no interest to him, he was witnessing Sherlock engage him in small talk, something his friend despised more then anything else, yet he didn't mind doing it with him. John felt rather smug. 

'Good. You should have joined me.'

'Dull, what is the point in wasting vital energy on something so pointless? Walk around the garden only to end up exactly where you started.' he sniffed. Again John smiled, Sherlock could act as contemptuous and as dismissive as he wished, but John had seen the softness underneath. 

John laughed. 'Yes, because reading an old dusty book is such a better way to spend my time.' he replied teasingly. 

He threw himself down on the ground next to his friend, lying on his back and shielding his eyes from the sun with an open palm. He always loved watching Sherlock as he read. The sun shone upon him as if he was a cherub, leaning back on the tree trunk with a slight breeze wafting through his curls. He has a curious habit of biting his bottom lip whenever he was in a state of deep concentration, John wondered if Sherlock ever realised he was doing it, perhaps he was the only person on the entire earth who had noticed? He looked the very picture of calm tranquillity, despite all signs pointing to his brain working at a furious rate. 

John breathed in, the other man's woody, musky scent tickling his nostrils. It was very difficult for John to comprehend just how beautiful he thought his friend looked, everyone else paled in relation. No one else in the entire world had such sharp cheekbones or piercing eyes, no one else has the delicate elegance of a cat whenever they moved, or a stare that could only be likened to a hound catching the scent of a fox. No other had hair quite so black or a scent so wonderful. John felt very plain and boring by comparison, yet he took comfort in the fact that everyone else was to. Sherlock was such a unique specimen that no one could compare. Their voices too high, their minds too dull. 

'John?' 

'Yes?' John spluttered, jolting out of his skin at his name as if suddenly being awoken from a dream. The haziness of his thoughts disappearing at once as he was startled into action. 

'Why are you looking at me like that?' For the first time in a long while John saw a flash of an unsure expression across his face.

'No reason.' John squeaked, then coughing as he tired to hide the high pitched squeal that had just come out of his mouth. 'I am not looking at you at all' he lied, there was certainly no way in all God's earth John could ever let Sherlock know he had been staring at him like a love sick animal. 

He knew Sherlock was not satisfied with the answer but he did not press the matter. Instead going back to his book, John tried to glance at the clouds but they could not hold his interest for very long. His eyes kept glancing back to Sherlock and soon he once again completely took over his thoughts. 

There was a curious sensation in his chest, the more he stared at Holmes the more he felt something take over him, a need, a want that he could never comprehend. He had such a desire to kiss his friend despite knowing it would be the end of everything. There was the strongest temptation to touch Holmes, even just thread his hand around a wrist or a foot, just to see what it felt like, to see how soft Sherlock's skin was, to see how warm and how smooth, just for a minute, a second even, anything to satisfy the war that was going on inside him. Nothing could make him curb such desires, hell or high water would never stop him from loving his friend. 

Another feeling quickly took over him as he imagined such activities. John could only describe it as a dull throbbing inside him, a warm flood of sensation that overtook his entire body, he quickly realised the source of such a strange feeling was right in-between his legs. 

Oh no, oh damn. This was certainly not good. This was not good at all. He was hard, he could feel it pulsing against his trousers. What would Sherlock think if he saw him like this? His skin was so flushed and hot, burning like wild far against the air. His breath became short, coming out in sharp pants. 

He gasped, quickly rolling over onto his front so Sherlock would not see. He had woken up many times with his manhood fully erect, John never understood why but he was always assured it would quickly go away. This however was quite intolerable. He was pretty sure good gentlemen did not have this occur to them.

'Come on John.' Sherlock commanded, getting up from his spot. 'We better head off.' brushing his hands across his legs to remove the loose blades of grass from his trousers. 'If we are late for the Ashby's we are in for a whole world of trouble'

Oh no! He could not move, as soon as he did Sherlock would know, John felt a flush of embarrassment that made him feel quite dizzy. For crying out loud Sherlock never cared if he was late or not, why did he suddenly mind? And of all times why now! 

'You go on ahead, I will catch up with you.'

'John?' 

'Please!'

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again. John breathed a sigh of relief when he muttered 'suit yourself' under his breath and charged on ahead.

John knew he would be quite unwelcome at the official greetings, but he still had to stand outside with everyone else as the Ashbys arrived, amongst all the other servants and footmen as they congregated outside the house to welcome their visitors, watching a decadent carriage approach them. He was on the outskirts, right at the far right and at the back, away from everyone. Stringing his back and standing on the tips of his toes, trying to catch Sherlock's eye so they could share a laugh and a joke, but his friend looked straight ahead and did not notice him. 

John was rather unimpressed by the Ashby's upon their arrival. The Indian sun had not effected them in the slightest. Lord Ashby was tall but he looked rather unwell, with sunken, yellowing skin and large bags under his eyes. He had the air of a man who rarely slept. His movements jagged at restless. His hair dark black, but matted and full of grease, his eyes a yellowing blue with the look of dirty water and in the middle of his face was a gigantic hooked nose. His wife was stick thin and just as sickly, holding the arm of her son. Stephen Ashyby had to have been the most ugly looking boy John had ever seen, looking exactly like his father but with rather large bucked teeth. 

'Richard!' he greeted Lord Holmes with a smile and was immediately lead inside.

John waved his hand, trying to capture Sherlock's attention.

'Sherlock' he cried to his friend, 'want to come back to the woods with me? I can take another walk and you could read a book' 

The boy looked at him apologetically, said nothing and followed his father inside the house. Sherlock had never said no to him before, they were always together, always, unless Sherlock was doing an experiment or reading. He had never chosen the company of someone else. Confused, he left for the tranquillity of the gardens. Walking along to his regular haunts he wondered why Sherlock had rejected him in favour of Ashby, the boy had never paid any attention to his fathers wishes or any of their guests before. 

He continued deep in thought until he came across the line of rose bushes on the far edge of the garden, a man in the distance was hacking way at a dead tree, trying to remove it but failing miserably.

Gray has been the head gardener at Sherringford for as long as John could remember. He was a wiry man with greying hair and a thin moustache, the days of toil had obviously taken their toll on him as he looked older beyond his years. John watched him avidly until he stopped, doubling over and out of breath. John ran up to him afraid he would collapse. 

'Well hullo there young Watson.' he smiled, dropping his axe and grabbing his side. He started to make the most awful wheezing sound. 

'Sit down. Would you like me to fetch you some tea?'

'Oh no, I am fine'. The poor man was clearly on the verge of passing out, he sat down next to his wheelbarrow and took off his cap, wiping his forehead with a dirty sleeve. Sweat dripping everywhere. 'Just not as young as I was, that is all.'

John had seen it many times over the years, men becoming too old to work, wizen and grey with no strength, they were soon let go and replaced with the younger crowd. John often wondered what happened to them, how they could go on with no occupation. He picked up the axe and faced the dead bark. 

'Rest, I will finish this for you.'

Despite the old man's protests John spent the rest of the afternoon hacking away. By the end the tree was entirely gone and he was drenched in sweat. He felt rather pleased as his body filled with that strange happiness that only comes from such exertion. Gray thanked him profusely, digging into his pocket and handing him half a crown.

'I can't take this.' 

'Please' Gray insisted 'For me? I can't let you do a hard days work and not pay you for it.'

John reluctantly took the money, shoving it inside his pocket. If it was anyone else he would have continued to refuse, but he knew the strong ideals that the older generation had. 

He went back inside, finding Sherlock standing in the hall. Stephen Ashby stood beside him, a shotgun in one hand and holding a rabbit carelessly in the other. The blood had dried on it, leaving only a murky brown mark, some matted fur and a large gash in its side where the bullet had entered. Its face contorted in pain, despite being dead John felt he could hear its cries, a white splodge across its nose had freckles of blood. 

'Well, you must be John Watson, the orphan boy.' Ashby grinned. John stood in silence, looking at Sherlock. 'Father told me all about how Lord Holmes saved you from the gutter. Rather odd since he already had three children.'

'I take it you have been hunting?' He asked his friend, ignoring the ugly boys mocking. 'I didn't think you were the type.' Sherlock had never previously shown any interest in hunting or killing, all he wanted to do was read. 

'Are you not going to greet your betters? I say, what terrible manners, ignoring me like that.' Ashby sneered at him.

John glared, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up in anger. 'Good afternoon, Stephen.' he said through gritted teeth. 

'That is Lord Ashby to you, Watson. Father constantly tells me that men in England do not know their place, I feel he is right. India is so very different as I was telling Sherlock, everyone accepts their lot in life with utter grace.' 

John had never wanted to hit someone before, but he wanted to punch Ashby right in his hooked nose. The boy was just as ugly as he was from a distance. The yellow skin seemed even more sunken up close, his hair full of grease and those cruel eyes made John feel queasy. 

'Would you like to come to Sherringford with me? The fête is on today and I have half a crown.' 

Ashby laughed. 'Sherlock does not have the time nor the inclination to go to silly fêtes with the likes of you. Come Holmes, I promised Lady Harriet I would walk with her before dinner and I better change.'

Sherlock looked at the floor, not even looking at his old friend before turning to follow Ashby up the stairs. 

John watched them leave, suddenly feeling rather angry that Sherlock did not want to spend any time with him, or that he had not defended him, perhaps that was a childish and silly want, for him to rush to his side as if he was a swooning maiden in a fairy story. Why was Sherlock was even choosing to spend time with such a wretch? Here was a man who had never in his life paid any remote attention to what was expected of him fawning over his visitors like a good little Lord. Well, if Sherlock wanted to spend time with such a horrible boy then John would let him. Maybe he had grown bored of John and decided Stephen Ashby was far more worthy of his attentions, after all, they were the same class and he was just from the gutter. 

'Make yourself useful and go find her, Watson, tell her I am ready for her now.' Ashby demanded when he was halfway up the stairs. 

'I believe she is in the drawing room.' came a quiet voice behind him. Lady Holmes was standing there, rooting through a small bag. 

'Are you okay? Have you lost something?' John asked

'Oh it is nothing, just half a crown has gone missing and I can't seem to find it anywhere. Don't you worry about John, go and find Harriet.'

Entering the drawing room he saw Lady Harriet and Clara on the far side of the room, he was about to apologise for his intrusion when he realised what an intimate moment he had interrupted. Clara noticed him first, immediately springing apart from Harriet and taking her hands away from their previous position on his sisters breast, their mouths making a strange popping sound as they were separated. Clara's skirts making a rustling noise as she rearranged them. 

'I told you someone would see us' she hissed at the other woman. Clara had a distinct look of anxiety across her face, but Harriet did not look bothered by it at all. 

'Nonsense, John does not count. You should go now, I have arranged a walk with Ashby and I can't be late.'

John was rather struck by his sisters shortness with her friend, she nodded, casting her eyes downwards towards the floor as if trying to hide herself away, he could have sworn he saw a tear drop form in her eye. She left without saying another word or looking back at them. John was unsure what he had just seen, he could hear Clara's footsteps outside and despite her being a virtual stranger to him he felt a need to chase after her, to put a gentle arm round her and comfort the poor woman. 

'You better not tell anyone' Harriet snapped at him. 'You saw what the did to Appleby.'

John was still trying to comprehend the scene that had just played out before him. He had had no time to think of telling anyone. 

'Do you love her?' he was unaware of wanting to ask the question before it as out of his mouth.

Harriet looked at him curiously, then sighed. 'You sound just like she does, she is always telling me she loves me and we should sneak out in the night to go to Paris or Venice or some such nonsense. I think I love her too but she is so selfish! I haven't even had my first season yet.' she exclaimed. 

'Will you?'

Harriet laughed, a horrible shrill laugh which he had heard so often when they were children. She looked at him like he was something she had scraped off her shoe 'Such a child you are John! Love has nothing to do with anything in this world' She mocked 'I will marry Ashby I am sure of it. Why else would father invite them here?'

'And Clara?'

'What about her?' she snapped suddenly looking very angry 'What do you wish for me John? Do you wish to send me back to London? Do you want me to live in squalor? I will not go back, never, just look how far we have come.' 

John glared at her, the anger and resentment that he had felt for years suddenly came boiling up 'We were born in London, our mother is dead and our father probably is to, we live in one room off George's street and you sell matches for pennies. That man is not our father.' 

He was unaware Harriet had slapped him until he felt a sting in his cheek and the sound of skin striking against skin. 

John had no idea just how angry he was till he started to speak again, Clara was a good woman, just like Rupert was a good man. She had love, something John so desperately wanted and she was just casting it aside for silly dreams of seasons and a horrible hooked nosed boy. He wanted to shake her, scream at her. John would die of happiness if Sherlock would touch him the way he had seen Clara touch his sister. He would be straight to Venice or Paris or wherever Sherlock wanted to go like a shot. Harriet got everything she ever wanted. It had all come so easy for her and yet John was the one who had to fight for everything he had ever had. 

'We belong in London, we belong in squalor. You know it, everyone knows it. As soon as the season begins everyone will see what an utter fraud you are.'

'Don't say that, don't you dare say that!' she screamed at him. Clawing at his clothes and skin with her fingernails. 'Take it back, take it back.'

John stayed silent as Harriet pummelled his chest his chest with a closed fist. The anger, palpable, thick in the air, was swimming through both of them. 

The sound of Harriet's cries had drowned out Jenkins arrival into the room. 

'Goodness what on earth is going on here?' He seethed, grabbing Harriet's arm. 'The two of you, brother and sister, fighting like two alley cats? Why, I have never seen such a thing.'

'It is all John's fault, it is always his fault.'

'John, go and see Lord Holmes, I know he wishes to speak with you about a matter most urgent, Harriet calm down, this is not fitting behaviour for a lady.'

Lord Holmes's study was incredibly dark, filled with dark mahogany furniture and dark oak which covered the walls. A stuffed fox stood to one side along with a small stuffed ferret perching on the desk in front of him. John never understood why men did this, it struck him as incredibly morbid, he did not understand the attraction of dead animals filling the space. A portrait of Lord Holmes hung proudly on the wall. It was an old painting, the colour had faded slightly and Lord Holmes was in much younger days, yet he still had the same intensity in his eyes, the rigid and stiff stance. 

Despite the sun not having yet set an oil lamp glittered in the corner, lighting up the dark, stuffy room. 

'You asked to see me, sir?' John asked quietly. He had not the foggiest idea why Lord Holmes would want to see him, he seemed to do his utmost to completely ignore the boy altogether. Very rarely did he even acknowledge his existence, let alone speak to him.

'Have you been in a fight?' he asked sternly, nodding to the read mark on his cheek and his rumpled clothes. 'Who with?'

John knew better then to tell the truth. If he did mention Harriet he knew he would get into a whole world of trouble, Harriet was Lord Holmes's whole world, if he told him he had upset her goodness knows what the man would do to him.

'Just some village children.' he lied.

Lord Holmes sighed 'Well, I suppose it is to be expected given who you are. The working class are savages but I thought I could take that out of you. Anyway, that is not why I brought you here, empty your pockets'

John knew better then to argue, he got the distinct feeling things were about to get even worse for him but there was nothing he could do about it, completely cornered like a rat in a trap he had no choice, rifling through his pockets he took out the few items that were in there, two pieces of string, his pocket watch and half a crown.

Lord Holmes picked up the coin. 'Where did you get this?' 

John kept silent, fearing if he said anything Gray would get into trouble. If he told Lord Holmes the truth they would assume Gray was no longer up to the job, if they knew he could not manage the physical labour any longer he would be out, where would that leave him? He was too old now to go somewhere new. John knew he had a wife depending on him, his job was all he had. He also knew Gray was a proud man, as all old men were, he couldn't let a man he had know for so long, a friend, to suffer the embarrassment of being too old. 

'My wife is missing half a crown. I asked the staff what had happened and then Lord Ashby's son tells me you had it. Did you steal this?'

John nodded, 'I am sorry.'

He did not regret it, quite the opposite in fact. He would have felt sick and angry with himself he were to tell the truth, whatever punishment Lord Holmes could give him was better then not being able to sleep at night. 

Lord Holmes got out the cane. 'Turn around.' His voice was so cold, even more so then normal. John did not know if he was angry, sad or even taking kind of sick pleasure in his pain.

The first hit caused a sharp, piercing agony along his backside. He could feel the redness appear and perhaps even a few specks of blood. The cane continued to strike him, he did not cry, he did not make a sound. He was getting rather good at that.

He could hear footsteps outside and the noise the cane made as a pierced through the air.

'You are to go to bed with no supper. If you do anything like this again you will be out, do you hear Watson? I will not have thieves in my house.'

John could do nothing but nod.


	7. Chapter 7

Always A Watson

Chapter Seven

May 1909

It was only when he felt Sherlock's rather impatient and enthusiastic hand rub over the harsh line of his shoulder that John awoke. Wrapped up in the cloying softness of his blanket he blinked his eyes open, again feeling Sherlock tug at his white nightshirt with a forthright and unmistakable urge. With a creak and a slight moan at the ache that filled his neck, as John had been sleeping too long on one side for movement to come quickly and easily, he moved his head, leaning all his weight onto one tortured elbow he shifted his once sleeping form towards the direction of his friend. He mumbled something inconsequential and unintelligible in his sleep. His mind still groggy from being stolen from the sweet darkness of slumber. His voice too, which felt croaky and horse. Words refusing to flow from his tongue. What he did manage to slip out sounded suspiciously like someone wishing to say 'what are you doing here?', but Sherlock was too busy grinning with a wanton delight to pay any mind. 

As soon as John had faced him Sherlock pushed his thin and strangely shaped lips onto his. The sharp cupids bow immediately settling onto John's top lip. A small moan filled the air, though which mouth had delivered it John did not have the time nor inclination to guess. Too busy was he enjoying the sensation of a pair of ruby red lips moving over his dull pink ones to care.

There was a warmth to Sherlock's kiss that John would never have expected. His friend too cold, too methodical to be able to kiss with such heat and care. He moaned into the other man's mouth, knowing for sure this time it was he who owned the noise. A flush of embarrassment filled his cheeks. Hoping Sherlock did not think him too base, a man of propriety certainly did not make such a noise as that. He certainly did not intend to feel a straining pressure between his legs, but John could not help prevent it. 

Their bodies locked together, a closeness John never wished to end. Breaking the kiss he glanced at his friend, his eyes suddenly a bright emerald green, eyelashes dark and fluttering at him, so long and thick John could not help feel a pang of jealousy. A laugh filled the air, then interrupted by John, who had not realised he had leaned in to kiss the man again till it happened, this time with more force then he thought able. He played with Sherlock's tongue, using his own to caress and tease. Lifting his body he covered his childhood playmate with his weight, flushed against him with a want John had kept hidden for so long. He rolled his hips feeling a friction that caused nothing but a surge of the sweetest and most terrifying feeling John had ever known.

It was a cockerel that awoke him, with its shrill, piercing cry. It called again, the only thing to be heard in such a silent and still space. John grumbled, turning over in the small bed and wishing to have a few moments of peace. Hazy and scattered visions of the dream came to him, though John tried desperately to ignore exactly what it was he had dreamt of. If he sorely wanted escape from the nigh time visions he had been having with an all too alarming frequency, he would not be granted such a wish. Evidence of the betrayal his mind seemed to relish inflicting on him was impossible to ignore. His manhood hard and heavy against his chest, his heartbeat erratic and thunderous inside its bony cage, his breath short and coming out in brief pants, his lungs crying out for more air then John could give and his entire body drenched in sweat. 

His sheets covered in his seed, disgracefully sticky and John wanted nothing more then to burn them, to take away any knowledge that he had defiled the fabric in such a way as this. Later the bed would be stripped, replaced with new sheets and the cycle would begin anew. Despite the thought being helplessly naïve, John could not help but hope the maids never noticed the sticky mess that he had left. If they did they never mentioned anything to him. He was unsure whether to be grateful for this or not. 

Dreaming of Sherlock was not an unusual occurrence in any way, he had been dreaming of him since he was a small boy, but those dreams had been filled with childish adventures and endless sunshine. These dreams, these dreams of lips and flesh had started only a month ago, when he swore to himself that he would forget this silly attraction he had, and were unrelenting. In fact it seemed the more he tried to deny the unspoken need he had for his friend the more vivid the dreams became. The location would change, sometimes in his bed, sometimes in Sherlock's, sometimes in the garden or the wood, in daylight or with the moon high in the sky, but the exact nature of the images before him did not, they would always involve stolen kisses and a warm, excited mouth. They would always involve the touch he had always told himself was strictly forbidden. 

He knew it was illegal, but he had not chosen this life, he had not chosen this want. A rather childlike sense of injustice filled him. He knew it was wrong, the deepest, darkest depravity any man could sink to, everyone knew that. Men who were caught jailed, where they belonged. Any man who could do something so dirty and disgusting to another man was not a man at all, they were and animal, a pest, a sickness, a disease which threatened all that was good and holy in this fair land and were treated as such. So why did he want it so badly? Why did he enjoy it so much? 

John had spent countless hours pleading, demanding, screaming at himself to stop, to change. To not feel a desire for men. To not feel a desire to kiss their lips or hold them in his arms. He had tried so hard to stop loving Sherlock, to stop wanting him in his bed. Homosexuality they called it, thought that word was never uttered in polite company and John could never bring himself to use it for his condition. He dared not give it a name, fearing that if he did this silent illness would become far too real. 

His cries of distress were silent, they had to be, no one could know he was fighting such a war within himself. It all left him feeling so very alone. He wanted nothing more then to wake up and find all these desires gone, either that or not wake up at all. The night before he had spoken out loud to the shadows to not wake up the next morning, they had not answered him. 

Throwing off his night shirt he dressed quickly, shutting his door with a deep thud he decided to skip breakfast and head outside into the fresh air.

'John, there you are' Sherlock's scent hit his nostrils before he turned to see the other man. A scent of wood and spice filled his head making him feel rather dizzy. Sherlock's eyes sparkled with delight at seeing him, something John felt such guilt over. How would he feel if he knew he was having such improper thought over him? That delight would be replaced with a dark rage. Something John never wished to contemplate. 

'Come, I wish to show you something, my experiment is nearly over, you must see it!'

John could still feel his heart beating wildly, could still feel his brain in such a panic he could barely breathe. He could think of nothing but a need to escape. He glanced at Sherlock for a few seconds before casting his eyes down to the floor. Still razor thin, still tall, still with the dark curls and stormy eyes. He had not changed, his appearance seemingly fixed till he drew his last breath.

'Sherlock I can not. Maybe another time?'

'That was what you said yesterday, and the day before that.'

He tried to ignore the hurt on his friends face at his words or the harshness in his tone. He pouted, rather like he did when he was a child.

'Sherlock I must go'

'But John it is nearly complete, I want you to be there, you need to be there. Come on.'

'No.' John snapped turning and running down the corridor. He could not be around Sherlock right now, not when he like this, he was not fully in charge of himself and he could do something awful. 

Sherlock would be hurt, but it was for the best, it was better to feel rejected then to know your friend harboured such feelings for you. If Sherlock knew the truth he would be grateful for John's choice to leave him in ignorance. 

It was May, meaning the morning air was bright and crisp, the sun already in the sky leaving the air full of warmth. There were two butterflies in the distance, fluttering around the air with their bright wings. One slightly large then the other, chasing each other into the distance till they were completely out of sight. A wasp, large and brutish followed. A few clouds peppered the sky, which was a light blue. A soft breeze played with his hair as he glanced upwards, his face softened, losing the tenseness in his temples and forehead. Breathing all the air out of his lungs he tried to steady himself. To regain at least a small grip on reality. He could not hold it in any more, the very seams of his reality ripping apart. He could not carry on like this, this feeling of his whole world being upside down, all he wanted was to be a good man and lead a good life, he could not bare to have such an illness, such a sickness of the mind that was preventing him from doing so. 

A tiny wren called out to him from a branch, John slowed down, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and slowing down to a casual stroll. John felt his body calm, his mind stopped racing and his breathing returned to normal. He could feel himself relax as he took in lungfuls of crisp air to the sound of the birds call. To be a good man and to be a man his mother would have been proud of he would have to stop being in love with Sherlock. He was unsure if this was even possible. 

It was only now, that the dark cloud of the dream was disappearing, that John realised today he was now eighteen. He smiled at the memory of that day all those years ago, of Sherlock bursting into his life and demanding John play with him. The death of his mother never forgotten, but now settled to a distant ache. He was a man now, he would have to find his own way in the world. 

Finding a spot in the grass beneath the tree he collapsed underneath it. The sun shining onto his face. Eighteen, where had the years gone? It has all flown by so quickly. Far too quickly for his liking, though Patty had often said life was fleeting, 'You're a child playing the grass and soon you are an old women looking at young people like you and wondering where all that time went' she had smiled at him one day, eyes full of sadness.

Fully grown, his hair a dark blonde, still streaked with sunshine but now only if the light hit it a certain way, for the most part it was a mousy brown. He was still far shorter then he would have liked, but he had grown into his height. No longer did it cause him any grief or semblance of anxiety, he was quite fine being the height he was. What he lacked in length he made up for in width, he was strong, he had filled and was broad in the chest and arms. 

He thought further, what of his mind? He had learnt over the years that life was full of sadness, every man and woman carried round an infinite capacity for melancholy. Rarely did he smile now, the weight of the entire world baring down on his shoulders.

His condition, his blasted condition! Why did this have to happen to him? To feel this way for the same sex, to feel so strongly for Sherlock he thought his heart would collapse from working too hard. Why was he punished so? He was good, he swore he was good, he said his prayers every night, he never lied or stole, rarely did he drink, he was a virginal and pure as he could ever have hoped to be, so why did God condemn him? Was his mother too soft, too kind? Perhaps she had injured him when he was a babe, dropped him on his head or some such. Was it his father? If he had stayed would his presence have showed him what a true man should be? Was it Patty, who had spoiled and coddled him far more then was proper. 

There had to be something, even the tiniest fraction of hope. Wishing it away had certainly not worked, constantly he would demand his mind halt its unnatural desires, yet all it would took was one glance at Sherlock or a smile from a pretty young man while in the village and the dam would break. He had scoured through his medical textbooks he had saved up for with money from doing odd jobs around the grounds, yet there was not even a mention of his disease, let alone a cure. 

A dark thought came into his mind, one that he usually would bat away quickly, but now the rage and panic allowed it to fester. Between his legs, that....thing. That thing which betrayed him every single day. Well, he had a pen knife, stashed away in the drawer of his desk. He could do it quickly, cleanly, it was sharp enough. He could buy alcohol rub easily, it would clean the wound so it would not turn septic. It would hurt, perhaps he deserved such pain. Perhaps he could break into the gin cupboard beforehand. Numb his brain and pluck up the courage. He would never have children, though this did not seem like such a bad thing, what if he had a son that grew up to be just like him? He would never marry, no woman would want to marry a eunuch. That would not matter either, better not to marry then to inflict a poor girl to life with a monster such as he. It was a desperate plan, John tried to immediately dispel such thoughts but the more he thought the more attractive the idea became. 

'John! John!'

He was broken out of his rather dangerous daydream by Joseph and his sharp cry. Bounding over to him in the way he always did, throwing the book he had been carrying down on the ground he sat crossed legged next to him. The tree branches casting long shadows on his face. John smiled at the broad, mischievous grin. The sight caused something strange and warm to flutter in his chest. 

'I see you are no longer reading Marx' John quipped 'Who are you reading now?'

'Social Contact by Rousseau, he is French don't you know. Care for a cigarette?' Joseph said this all rather fast, offering up his pack of cigarettes and fishing for his box of matches out of his, rather crumpled, shirt pocket. 

'Rather' John replied enthusiastically, taking one of the white tubes and bringing it to his lips. Since he always insisted on buying textbooks with what little money he earned cigarettes were a rare treat.   
He coughed slightly as he inhaled, Joseph's brand were cheaper and far harsher then the ones he could snaffle off Sherlock, who much preferred a more expensive brand of tobacco which were far easier on the lungs.

'Man was born free and everywhere he is in chains. That is what Rousseau says' Joseph expelled, flinging his arms into the air with a passion John thought alluringly artistic. 

'It is so true though John, this order, this life! Rousseau could see it was wrong, we are in chains, all of us.' He spoke quickly, again waving his hands in the air like a wild man. 'It is all wrong, it is all so very wrong and it is not fair. They call it a natural order but it isn't, we are an oppressed mass! Class, money, industry, it is wrong, wrong wrong wrong.'

John thought for a few moments and decided that the man, despite being French, did have a point. 

'We are having a football match on the green later, Allwalton have challenged us to a game. You should come' 

John sighed, 'That sounds wonderful, but I can't.' He always felt bad whenever he declined Joseph's invitations. He wished he could go off and play, but he felt an overwhelming need to be left alone with his thoughts. 

Joseph sneered, casting a horrible look upon his face that John tried to ignore. 'Let me guess, Lord Snotnose needs you for something?' 

'Don't call Holmes that, and he does need me at all. I am feeling rather unwell so I shall retire to my room.'  
Joseph sighed, reaching out he squeezed John's shoulder, then ran a hand down his arm. John watched intently at his movements, unable to prevent the hairs on his arms standing up.   
'My pretty John.' he smiled to himself 'You have such a lovely form. I would paint you if I could'  
John blushed a shade of deep scarlet at the flirtatious tone in his voice, but before he could inquire further Joseph leapt up, brushing the grass off his trouser legs and grabbing his book.   
'One day all this will go, John. The old ways, it will cease to exist. Something big will happen and men like Holmes will no longer own us, any of us. Either they evolve or they die. Holmes seems to think it will last forever, it won't, the world is changing and for the better. Better times are ahead, no more Lords, no more titles, we will own our fair share for once. Ha, Holmes won't know what hit him.' Joseph laughed. 'Do you still have that copy of A Shropshire Lad I gave you?' 

John nodded, 'Yes, I like it a lot, thank you.' 

John wondered for a moment if Sherlock would remember that today was his 18th birthday, over the years his friend had rather forgotten such trivial matters, such as dates, saying they clogged up his brain and left him unable to reach the important information he had stored in the vastness of his quick mind. John could not help but feel a cloud of gloom surround him, that he was deemed unimportant. 

Tomorrow there was to be a grand ball to celebrate the anniversary of Harriet's birth and the house was in a constant flurry of excitement and activity. Apparently it was to be the grandest, most opulent party the house had ever seen. Everyone was to be there, invitations were sent out all over the country and a lack of one meant one was singled out as a pariah. John kept well out of the way, preferring to spend time as far away from it as possible. He disliked large social occasions at the best of times, what with the noise and the strangeness of such events. Why should he spend an evening of his life entertaining people he had never met before? Not that he would have been allowed to come even if he wanted to. Harriet was sure to throw the greatest of fits at even a mention of her unwanted brother being at her party. Here she was to be the centre of attention, doted upon and stared at like a rare exotic animal, imagine the look on the guests faces if her brother was to be seen and ruin absolutely everything? If he was a worse man he would purposely ruin his sisters party, but spite was a rather alien concept to him so he decided to just stay out of the way.

Of course Sherlock was to attend, John had seen him in his best tails and coat, the very picture of beauty. His heart briefly skipped a beat at how his curls peeked out under the brim of his hat. 

'I must dash' Joseph said, breaking John out of his daydream. 'Things to do, sure I can not tempt you with the match?'

'Quite sure.' 

'Can I ask something of you?' The look on his friends face was one of extreme thought, he looked as if he about to burst through sheer apprehension. John chuckled softly to himself at the sight, there was nothing Joseph did not do at a mile a minute. 

'Of course' John replied.

'Meet me in the stables at midnight?'

'Midnight? Whatever for?'

'I can not say, just come, please.'

He straightened the cap on his head and before John could even ask what on earth Joseph wished to do in the dead of night, he scurried away towards the green. 

The interior of the house had changed very little since John had come here as a child. Everything was still as he had remembered it, as if stuck in a dream and time had yet to move on. From the paintings to the ornaments, it was all exactly the same as it ever had been in his memories.

His room was rather bare in comparison to Sherlock's, though his friend kept so many experiments going all at once it was unsurprising. Leaning against the window pane he glanced out outside, wondering if perhaps he should have gone with Joseph after all. Standing here and wallowing in this dredge of self pity would do him no good. 

There was a loud knock on his door. 

'Come in'

Sherlock entered rather timidly, holding a brown package held together with string. The sheepish look on his face was at odds with his usual confidence. 

'If you still want to avoid me I shall go.' he mumbled, staring at the floor. 

John sat down on his bed, feeling the old thing sag under his weight. 

'Sorry, old friend' he smiled, the feeling of guilt sending a bolt of coldness up his spine. 'Sit down.' he gestured to the bed. 

'I just wanted to give you this.' he shrugged, 'I know you never want a fuss but it is your birthday, you should get something' 

John beamed, Sherlock had not forgotten after all. 

'Thank you.' He unwrapped the present with care, unfolding the paper till a small red book appeared.

'Complete works of Shelley. I know you like all that romantic guff.'

John laughed 'It is wonderful.' He admired the book, the smell of leather hitting him. 

'There was some Keats as well, maybe you would prefer him, I was unsure but we could swap them if you like.'

'Sherlock, I love it, honestly, please stop babbling.'

The grin Sherlock gave him made his heart leap. He immediately wrapped an arm round Sherlock, giving him a tight squeeze. He knew he should not do such a thing, temptation was something he knew he would not know how to fight, but he could not. Instead he smiled, feeling Sherlock's solid form under his hand. His arm flushed against his friends shoulders. Those long, raven coloured curls falling over his face. 

Sherlock bit his lip, wrapping his hands together to form a tight knot. His thumbs running over each other in some kind of nervous dance. John watched intently as Sherlock furrowed his brows. 

'What is wrong?' he asked quietly. 

Sherlock sighed. 'Nothing, it does not matter.'

'Sherlock' he said with a deeper tone then he would normally use. He could feel the other man tense. 

'I miss you. That is all.' he blurted out. 

'Miss me?' John gave him a puzzled expression, turning his head slightly to the left. 'How can you miss me? I see you every day, Sherlock. You do not have time to miss me. Even if you did all you would have to do is look out of your window and there I am.' 

Sherlock shook his head, eyes still glued to the floor as if he was physically unable to look up. He eyes not moving from their position, incapable of looking in his direction, or any direction for that matter, John was rather frightened to think what he would find in those pale orbs. 

'No, you are not listening.' The words could have been exceptionally harsh, harsh enough to be an accusation, but there was nothing in the tone that suggested Sherlock was being critical, instead it sounded like a plea. 'You never want to spend time with me. You either demand to be alone or you are off with that stable boy' He said the last words with a bitter tone, his nose curling in disgust'

'Joseph is my friend. Friends like to be with each other.'

'So am I! Yet you never wish to be with me, weeks now John, I have counted. You are always disappearing, you never want to see my experiments. I miss you, I just want you to be near and yet you never are.'

Sherlock's words washed over him, every syllable a knife plunging into his chest. He could not tell Sherlock the truth, he could not tell him the true reason why he avoided him. He could not tell him the real reason why he ran from his presence. It would be his ruin, it would be the very end of him. 

'I am sorry, old friend, really I am. It is just' he scrambled his brain trying to think of something even remotely plausible, though Sherlock knew him so well was there even any point in lying? 'I have a lot of my mind, I just needed some time to myself.'

'You do not need some time away from that oaf'

'Joseph is not an oaf.'

'He most certainly is, not a flicker of intelligence in all of that large and thick head of his.'

'Oh please. Jealousy does not suit you.' 

'I am not jealous, why would I be jealous of him?' he pouted again, as if the mere comparison of their two beings was the utmost insult to him. John had no idea why the two did not get along, they had not even spoken to each other. Let alone have spent enough time together for their personalities to clash. Though perhaps it was obvious, seriousness and carefree would never mix.

John sighed, he could not bare to be the source of pain for anyone, let alone Sherlock, he would just have to fight his unnatural urges and hope he remained undiscovered 

'I am awfully sorry to be the cause of such distress in you. I promise I will no longer hide away from you. Take my apology sincerely, for it is entirely genuine.'

Sherlock beamed 'Of course, thank you. I must get back to my experiment, a letter from Mycroft came yesterday and he promises that if it is a success he will send the results to Scotland Yard at once. Though I had to make a silly deal to no longer experiment with dynamite. It will be worth it I am sure.'

John laughed, hearing the noise fill the full and the faint blush that appeared on his friend's cheek. 

'You can not laugh at something so serious as crime, John, a man's guilt has been proven by me and here you are laughing at my sad deprivation, honestly.' he grinned back. Holding his hand to his chest over his heart he sighed melodramatically 'The loss of my precious dynamite is something I will have to bare.'

'I will send up a prayer of thanks to whoever answered me, now I can rest easily without the fears of being blown up in my sleep.'

Sherlock gave him a playful shove, to which John immediately pushed him back, again letting out a loud laugh. 'You may regret that prayer, John. The ball is tomorrow after all.'

John sighed 'Oh god how could I forget, not even a tiny piece left over to frighten the guests?' 

Sherlock snorted, then shook his head 'No, Mycroft insisted on everything, not even a tiny bit remains.' Sherlock put a hand of his heart again and pretended to weep 'Now I am a poor wretch, a poor wretch with no dynamite, how could I continue?' 

John smiled at such a show of absurdity. 'Darn, still, I suppose I get out of things quite easily in comparison, not only do you have to attend but I am sure your Father will have all the eligible ladies queued up in the hope he can find one poor soul to be your wife.'

Sherlock made a face, screwing up his nose and making a frightfully awfully vomiting sound. 'How could you even suggest that. I will never marry, ever, not for all the tea in China.'

'I suppose you would find love utterly tiresome, not for great minds such as yourself.'

Sherlock let out a small sigh 'So it would seem.'

'Such a cold thinker you are.'

Sherlock glared. 'I am not cold, and if you would like proof that I am as warm and human as you, my dear John, just know I am in love, deeply.' He blushed, looking away immediately, leaving John with the deep impression he had just blurted out something which he intended to remain a secret.

'In love? You? Really, you must tell me who with! One of the maids? A girl from the village perhaps?' John immediately tried to push any jealous thoughts out of his fractured mind. Instead pretending to be the very specimen of bouncing happiness. Though, of course, the show was entirely false, inside his guts were churning. 

'I will not tell you, I can not, besides, it does not matter who with as the love will not be returned, ever. I am so certain of that'

'How tragic, reminds me of the books Patty is always reading, such awful melodrama has befallen you!'

'Do not make fun of me John.'

'Yes, you are right, I am sorry, though why does you love have such an end? Wait, no, do not answer that and let me guess. She is already married? Your vast intellect will crush her to death? You have grown tired of her?' 

Sherlock shook his head, leaning himself against John's shoulder and whispering delicately. 'No, none of those.'

'Well, what is it?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I fear they have fallen for another.'

It was at that moment a sharp knock was heard against the door. A footman John could never quite remember the name of stepped it. So many seemed to come and go he could never keep track.

'Lord Holmes wishes to speak with you, on what matter I do not know.’

‘Can it not wait till after lunch?’ John protested, his stomach filling the room with a loud grumble.

‘Certainly not! You should know better than to keep his Lordship waiting’

If there was anything worse than watching one’s lunch go cold, it was the cane, which would surely be used if he did anything other then be prompt and dutiful, so John had very little choice. 

'He is in his study, please follow me.' 

Once they reached Lord Holmes's rooms the footman ordered him to wait to be announced. He heard the old man bark at him to enter. 

The study itself was rather small compared to the grandeur of the rest of the house. Filled to the brim with books and ornaments, no space along the walls was left, all taken up by the objects Lord Holmes had collected in his life. It was dark, due to the small window that let in on a tiny amount of sunlight from the outside and the dark wooden panelling across the width of the room, a large desk and chair took up most of the space. Even Lord Holmes, tall as he was, looked pathetically small in the huge chair. A candle burnt in the centre next to a full ashtray. 

‘Ah, Watson.’ He called just as John had stepped in the room.

‘You wished to speak with me,Sir?’ John felt his pulse quicken, he wished to spend as little time here as he could. 

Lord Holmes lit a cigarette and stared at him with an intense expression. The same gaze his son had picked up and used even when he was just a babe in arms. 

‘I will keep this brief. You are eighteen years old now. As you know Jenkins will stop tutoring you this summer and so I feel we need to discuss your future.’

John felt his mouth go completely dry, he knew there would be a time when this conversation would arouse. He could not spend the rest of his life in this eternal summer, life was going to have to move on at some point, he knew that, such a thing was completely inevitable. Would he be forced out? Allowed enough time to pack a bag and then off into the cold? He did not doubt Lord Holmes was capable of such a thing, he did not doubt that at all.

‘Yes, I suppose we must.’ he spluttered, trying to keep a sense of calmness about him. He would not fall apart under the Lord’s gaze, he could not, he must not. 

‘Tell me, what do you wish to become?’

‘Become?’ 

'I wish to become your sons lover, I wish to take him and make him mine and kiss those lips and that long neck and I wish to have him naked and quivering under my touch' was what his brain immediately added to that word. He halted himself quickly, hissing at himself to pull his wits together. Lord Holmes would probably take great delight at seeing him thrown in jail for the greatest indecency. 

‘Yes, boy’ Lord Holmes snapped ‘You must know, you must have a dream? A profession’

John felt rather backed into a corner, the ticking of the grandfather clock matched the quickness of his pulse. ‘I wish to become a doctor’

The words were out before he could stop them. He had always dreamed of becoming a doctor, to be someone who could cure those that were ill. To halt death was surely the greatest power a man could have? Ever since his mother had died he had wanted nothing else. 

‘Medicine?’

‘Yes, sir. I have wanted to be a doctor since I was a child, my mother died of what I now believe to be consumption, I wish to cure the sick so boys like myself never know the pain of loss.’

Lord Holmes stroked the thinning, greying hairs on his chin, thinking for a few moments he stared ahead.‘That certainly is a fine profession.’

‘Thank you’

Lord Holmes took a long drag on his cigarette. Giving John a long look, he sighed ‘I am sending my son to Oxford soon. Though I worry as he is such an.......' he paused, searching for the right word '…...usual specimen.’

There was another long pause. 

‘I see how you are with him, I know you have been a calming influence on him and since there is no possibility of him accepting a minder you are the next best option. I will ask this only once and do not think you will be allowed any time to change your mind. Do you wish to join him?’

‘Yes, of course.’ John said immediately. He was unsure if it was because he had the chance to become what he had always dreamed of being or because he could not bare being separated from Sherlock. He will be unsure of this for this till his dying day.

Lord Holmes nodded ‘Do not think of this as me caring. It was not my idea to educate you and it is not my idea to have you sent off either. Mycroft and my wife seem so certain you are talented enough to rub shoulders with the best minds in the country, they also seem to think you should be more then that grubby stable boy I see you with. This was their idea, do not think I will allow you to disappoint them. I am only offering you this because I am fully aware my son is incapable of surviving on his own.’

Mycroft had sailed through Eton, then Oxford, currently he held a minor position in the British government, though doing what was completely unknown. 

'Well?' He barked 'Are you not happy? I always suspected ungratefulness was a trait in you, and here you are, saying nothing when I offer you such an incredible bounty.'

'Yes, Sir, thank you very much Sir, I will not disappoint you, Sir.'

Lord Holmes went back to his book. 

'That is all, leave now.'

Windchat had died earlier in the year, meaning one stable now lay completely unoccupied. He had always been slightly fearful of the animal, so large and as white as snow, almost verging on mythical. It had been one of Lord Holmes's favourites, he felt such a blow from the loss that he was in now hurry to fill the space. John rested on the new hay, checking his watch though only a few seconds had passed since he had last done so. 

Every time he breathed in he could smell the earthiness of his surroundings, most of the horses were asleep though some whinnied softly, as if they were mindful of their new guest. He had dressed quickly, scampering out of the house without delay, despite having a large amount of time before Joseph was due, simply because he could not bare pacing around his room for a moment longer. He threw a thick dressing gown over his clothes and stepped out into the night, not even daring to take a candle for fear of discovery. He felt rather excited, the boyhood charm of being out late and unseen not having left him just yet. Unsure if all this even meant Joseph would have anything important to say to him,his friend seemed to adore the dramatic. 

Even though there was still fifteen minutes to go before midnight struck, a loud squeak filled the room as the door was opened. John crouched down, hoping the soft glow from the lantern would miss him. Straining his ears he tried to judge by the tread, or the shadowy shape that was darting across the space if it was friend or someone who could get him into a heap of trouble. 

'Gosh, you are here early.' Relief flooded him as Jospeh's warm voice filled the air.

'You sound rather out of breath.' John remarked back, noticing the sweat that covered his brow. 

'Ran all the way here from the village. Bought us this' he held up a bottle of gin, unscrewing the cap he drank then handed the bottle to John. 

'How was the match?'

'Brilliant, we lost five-nil.'

John smiled, taking another gulp of the gin.

'How on earth did you get the money for such good gin?' John screwed his face up as the burn from the alcohol hit the back of his throat, sliding down lusciously into his belly. 

Joseph grinned, sitting down beside John and clearing enough hay to lay the lantern down next to them. He took the gin bottle back, taking another large swig before handing it back. 

'I won some money off Mr Haycock's apprentices.' 

'The ones from Dijon?'

'Yes, they had this absurd notion that the reason the French are so much prettier then us is because everyone has so many lovers over there. Apparently people can only be beautiful if they have been fucked or something like that. Anyway, I told them they were wrong , put a shilling on it and then tonight at the pub I showed them a picture of you, said that this man has not touched someone in his entire life but he is the most beautiful man I know. They agreed and I bought gin to toast our winnings.'

John felt the hot, engulfing wave of embarrassment flood through him. Screwing his right hand into a fist till he could feel his blunt nails digging into his flesh, leaving half moon shapes on the palms on his hand. With the other he took the bottle to his lips and drank a considerable quantity of the gin. 

'How do you know I have not had sex? I could have had hundreds of lovers for all you know.' he hissed. 

Joseph gave him a crooked grin, leaning his head to the side. 'Well, have you?'

John shifted uncomfortably, taking another large mouthful, the gin already making him feel light headed.

'Is that what you wish to do then? Get drunk and celebrate my virginity?'

Joseph grasped the gin bottle, bringing it to his lips, tilting his head back to show off his Adam's apple and prickly neck. 'I think it is a good thing.' he placed his hand on John's knee, which John did not immediately pull away from. 

'I do not understand why you showed them my photograph, you are far more prettier then I am.' Turning his head to take in his friend and take back the gin bottle.

'Even if I was' Joseph laughed. 'I am far too debauched to prove the frogs wrong.'

John blushed at such a comment. 

Then drank in relative silence, each taking turns to drink the clear, bitter liquid. They both watched Joseph trace patterns across John's thigh. 

'What is it like? Sex, I mean'

Joseph shrugged, taking another mouthful of gin 'It hurts, at first, then it stops hurting and it becomes' he paused, staring at the roof of the stable 'everything, I suppose, and nothing, all at the same time. I can't explain it.'

'I thought it only hurt girls? Since they are the ones being penetrated' John hiccuped, thought that did not stop him from accepting Joseph's offer of more gin.

Joseph smiled 'yes, I suppose it must hurt girls too.'

'You did not ask if you were hurting them?'

Joseph shook his head, smiling at John. 'Actually that is why I asked you here, I thought the gin would give me courage but it seems I am a coward after all.'

John could feel something thicken in the air, something that made the air seem so hot, something that made beads of sweat claw at his skin, there was a look in Joseph's face when he stared at him after taking another mouhful, a look he had never seen before.

'You are very pretty, you know that John? Very'

'You asked me to come to tell me you think I am pretty?' 

Joseph sighed, 'No, but in a way yes. Oh I do not know.' He drank the rest of the gin, throwing the bottle away and hearing it roll along the floor, the glass making a clinking sound against the hard surface.

'I wanted you here for so long, yet here you are and I fear I can not do it, can you forgive such a thing, John? Forgive me for bringing you here?'

'I would forgive you if I knew exactly what it is you wish me to forgive.'

Joseph threaded his hand through John's, again he did not pull away.

'The frogs are laughing at me, though they would not if they knew you, you seem to be oblivious to the effect you have on people.'

'I am afraid I am far too preoccupied with the effect people have on me. You need not be so glum, Joseph, if it is important it can wait.'

Again a seriousness John had never seen in his friend suddenly seem to descend. His eyes darkened, pupils filled with a blackness John thought only Sherlock possessed. 

'No, this can not wait, not a moment longer.'

John laughed, he could not help it, his brain woolly from the gin. 'Then do it, for god's sake I can not bare the suspense any longer. Whatever it is.'

'Yes' was the reply, warm and husky but with an edge of fear still present 'Yes, I feel I must.'

John did not notice the kiss at first, did not notice the warm, soft lips that were placed so expectantly on his own. His brain did not seem to process that, as if the lips were too light, too delicate for his brain to even register their presence, he only noticed the hand that threaded itself through the hair on the back of his head, then moved its weather beaten digits to his neck, using the thumb to bring his face forward. 

It took a few brief, almost non existent seconds to notice the lips, to notice them move against his own, taking his bottom lip and giving it a small suck, a tongue running itself along John's closed mouth, trying to open it. 

As soon as John realised what was happening he darted backwards, as if he had touched fire. Though Joseph held his head and managed to bring him back for a few more stolen caresses. 

'It is okay, John. You can pretend I am him, I do not mind, I know it is him you want.'

This time his tongue managed to find its way in, demanding entrance as if it had always meant to have been there. It was remarkably pleasant, even through the gin John could tell. The warmth, the wetness, though once more as soon as his brain cleared he fought with what his body so desired, was screaming out to carry on as it was too sweet and too nice to stop.

'Are you mad! What are you doing!' 

He pushed Joseph away again, though the taller man held onto the lapels of his dressing gown, keeping him in place, tugging at his clothes with a filthy desire John was too terrified to admit he wanted. 

'Stop it' he pushed out at the body that loomed over him, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the door. 'Someone could find us, they could see!'

Joseph did not pay attention to any of his pleas, instead attaching himself to john's neck, pushing him down into the hay and lying over him. 

'It feels good though, does it not?'

Oh god save him but yes it did, it was more then good. Joseph taking him apart with his kisses, nips, licks and sucks. John groaned. He tried to fight but when Joseph placed his lips over his mouth once more he felt all fight evaporate. His tongue exploring, invading him. The mouth so close, so close to his own, touching it in a way John never thought imaginable. 

'That is not the point' he mumbled, half heartedly.

'It is entirely the point.'

John ran a hand down Joseph's back, feeling the weight of it, the spine and the ribs. They kissed again, bumping noses, John taking more control this time and letting it be him to push a tongue past teeth and gums. 

John quickly gives up any desire to fight, he tries, but he can not. His body too engulfed, too full of warmth and pleasure to stop himself. It felt right, natural, he forgot that this was a man he held, just that it was another human being who wanted to kiss him. 

He kisses Joseph till everything else fades away, till what they did was no longer a sin but simply a desire. He knew he would quickly forget this, that as soon as dawn breaks and the gin turns euphoria into a headache he would not feel anything more the a sinner, he knew that daylight would make a fool of him when he looked back on this but right now all he could do was kiss, and be kissed in return. He ignored any shame in feeling his manhood harden. 

They could not stay for long, they had no place that belonged to them, both distinct outsiders stealing whatever space they could find. One more kiss and it was time to part. 

'Please, come back tomorrow, here, at the same time, everyone will be too wrapped up in the silly party they will not notice.'

'I do not know.'

Joseph collected the lantern and turned to leave. John watched him go, long after the door was shut, he imagined him as a dot, disappearing on the landscape till he was completely out of sight.


End file.
